


you've got pressure dripping off your shoulders (let me be the one to relieve it)

by MisasBiggestFan, shadychild



Series: Lean On Me 'Verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Natasha Romanov, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Dehumanization, Depression, During Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Sam Wilson, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sexism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Super Soldier Natasha Romanov, Veterans, minor period-typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisasBiggestFan/pseuds/MisasBiggestFan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadychild/pseuds/shadychild
Summary: Everyone is looking for love. Even for the ones lucky enough to get their Names and meet that person, love can take years. Sam Wilson got his Name and then came the devastating revelation that fate wasn’t going to be as kind to him as it might have been. What happens when you spend your life wanting something that you can’t have? This is the tale of Sam’s 28 year journey towards his happy ending and the realization that sometimes love has been waiting for you a lot longer then you think...."Sam talks a lot of shit about being chained to a dead guy but the reality is that he wants Bucky with every fiber of his being. He’d really rather yank out his teeth than admit that, but it’s the truth. Sam doesn’t get to meet his soulmate and he doesn’t get to love him or touch him or anything.His heart is bleeding from losing Riley, and he’s already lost Bucky (I neverhadhim, his heart rages). He feels so alone in the world. Who else can say that their soulmate died about thirty years before they were born? Who else can say that they’re ‘mated to a dead person the way Sam can? Maybe there’s someone out there but Sam isn’t looking for them."





	1. Prologue - Mates

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas [Amber](https://rebelslicious.tumblr.com/), [Benjamin](http://apiculteur.tumblr.com/), and Keri, and [Kayla](http://violetteacup.tumblr.com/) who helped as much as she could, mostly by letting me make her sad. Also thank you to my new friend [Cali](http://calihart.tumblr.com), who I betaed for. [Go read their fic right now!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12001482/chapters/27155127) A big thank you to my artist, [Austin](aroace-steve-rogers.tumblr.com). Their art is so amazing! I cried when I first saw it.
> 
> Thanks also go to the rest of the SWBB Slack chat for putting up with me. This was my first ever bang and it was amazing, so thanks to the mods as well <3\. Finally, this would never have been finished if not for the Get Shit Done crew.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, Steve, and Natasha deal with getting their Names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: mention of blood, slang, mention of early twentieth century Russian politics, some grief.
> 
> You'll notice that I have a "Supersoldier Natasha" tag. That comes into play here. I based her vaguely off comics canon here, so in this AU she was born in 1936 and has decelerated aging.

[](https://imgur.com/R8ToMu4)

## 1931

Bucky comes from one of those families whose Name comes in with puberty, not when their ‘mate is born. He has to wait until fate decides to give him his Name, and only after he shoots up like a weed will it happen. Needless to say, he doesn’t like it one bit.

He finds out later that he’s lucky it happens like that. But it’s not later, so he has no idea why his Name is doing what it’s doing. He has no idea just how lucky he is.

Names are supposed to look the same for everyone. They’re supposed to loop around your wrist like a bracelet. Yeah, it hurts when they come, if you aren’t born with one. The letters are supposed to be a decent size, not too big and not too small. They aren’t thick or thin, they just _are_.

Which is why it’s so weird when Bucky wakes up one night at age fourteen, a searing pain on the back of his neck. His cry is loud enough to wake his parents and his sisters and his brother (and probably his grandma from the dead, God rest her soul). It’s only his Ma and Dad who sit on the bed with him, ask him what’s wrong. His siblings stand around the bed, eyeing him worriedly.

His parents touch his head where the pain is the worst and come back fingers bloody.

They tell him that fate is writing a Name on his skull and he should try to go to sleep. Ma has some sort of medicine to give him for the pain.

He takes it -- he almost throws up, it’s so gross; Alice screeches at the gagging noise he makes, making the upstairs neighbor pound on the floor, but Alice don’t care. He sleeps for two days. When he wakes up, he’s sweating like a hog.

Steve comes by and lays under the covers with him. His Ma and Dad are at work, the kids at school, so it’s just them. Steve sits on Bucky’s back -- Steve’s so small, it doesn’t hurt having him there, but he can’t exactly move around like this. Then Steve parts his hair and parses out the Name **Samuel “Sam” Wilson**.

“So it’s a boy,” Bucky mutters, and wonders if that’s why it came in his hair.

“‘S tiny, too,” Steve says, showing with his fingers. Bucky makes an appropriate noise -- ‘s tiny, alright. “So small I could barely see through your hair.” Probably why it took so long, then.

“That don’t make any sense,” he replies, because yeah, okay, his ‘mate is a guy. But it’s not like it’s never happened before. He knows lotsa boys with boys for ‘mates, lotsa girls with girls, too. But theirs are normal, like his Ma and Dad’s. So why’s his hidden?

* * *

 

## 1936

Steve is already in bed when Bucky gets home.

His coat goes on the rack by the door, his lunchbox on the coffee table. He kicks off his shoes -- today, his nice pair instead of his docks pair, since he had to wait tables down at the L&L Automat -- and starts unbuttoning his shirt as he moves into the bedroom.

“Stevie?”

The Steve-shaped lump on the bed mumbles something Bucky can’t make out.

“You gettin’ sleepy?” He shrugs off the over shirt and puts it on top of the pile of dirty clothes. “S’only eight.”

“Nnnn.”

“No?” Bucky chuckles, sitting by Steve’s ankles. He grabs one just to make Steve kick him away. “You sure?”

“Shove off, Buck.”

“You’re taking up the whole bed, pal, where’m I supposed to sleep, huh?” Steve scoots over a whole inch and a half, grumbling the whole way. Bucky shakes his head; Steve’s so damn stubborn. “Real generous of you.”

“Shuddup.” Steve laments, words muffled by the blanket, “I got my Name t’day, leave me be.”

“What? Your Name? What’s it say?” He tugs on the blankets, but Steve and his small fists hold a lot more power than you’d think. The blanket doesn’t budge from over his head. Bucky would pull harder, but this is the only blanket they got, and he doesn’t want it to rip. It could be sewed back up -- Steve’s real good at it, and Bucky’s not too shabby himself -- but string costs money they don’t have.

“Some Russian dame.”

“Oh, great. You got a revolutionary for a ‘mate?” He shuffles around so his head is on his pillow,  laying on his side, facing Steve.

“She was just born, Buck, I don’t think she’s gone to any marches. I don’t think she’s doin’ much of anything ‘cept starving.”

“People over there are even worse off than us,” Bucky agrees, sliding a hand under the blanket. It’s warm from Steve’s body, though when Bucky’s fingers slide over his ribs, he finds that Steve’s cold like usual. The shiver he feels under his palm isn’t due to the cold, he knows. “You gonna let me in, Steve? Gonna let me see?”

“It’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”

“My Name.”

“Can’t get any worse than mine.” No, he reminds himself strongly, biting the inside of his cheek. There’s nothing wrong with his Name. He just wishes he could see it better, s’all.

A skinny arm sticks out of the same hole his arm is making. His fingers curl around Steve’s elbow, keep him still so Bucky can see. **Natalia “Natasha” Romanova**.

“She sounds swell,” he tries. Admittedly, it’s a little difficult to see the Name. They’ve always known that Bucky was gonna have to get with a girl with another gal for a ‘mate but he’d thought Steve would be at his side. A Russian dame will surely want him to go to her. Letters overseas take much longer than a shout across their apartment, than from the other side of the bed.

“I don’ _want_ swell.” _Way to sound petulant there, Stevie. Least you got a girl, least you can see yours._

Bucky flops on his back, letting go of Steve’s arm but not before running his fingers down it. His hands go behind his head; one finger rubs at his Name, warmth pulsing through him as always. God, he’d do anything to be able to see it. “Swell’s better’n a crumb, I would say.”

“‘Course you would, you’ve been with every _crumb_ this town’s got to offer.”

“Now Steve, I’m sure that’s not true. There’s got to be more hiding somewhere.”

Steve pushes the blankets off his face, and the flat expression he’s got going on makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat. “That’s a horrible thing to say, Buck.”

Bucky rolls over so he’s half on top of Steve and half on the bed. “You said it too, so there.” He sticks out his tongue. “An’ anyway, I would say I’ve been with some of the swellest Brooklyn’s got, too. Not just ‘er crumbs.”

“Oh yeah? Who?” Steve’s fingers come up to caress Bucky’s Name. He shivers. Some day, it’s gonna be Sam Wilson touching him there. For now, Steve’s doing it just fine.  
  
Bucky smiles, a little dumbly. He’s so in love with this fool. “ _You_.”

* * *

 

## 1944

“You Nameless?” Jim asks when they’ve been locked back up for the night. The other men in their cell look over, interested. Even Monty, who doesn’t give a shit about most of their conversations, perks up.

Bucky shakes his head; the ceiling spins and makes him dizzy. “No, m’not. Just real hard to see.”

“C’est petit?” Dernier crawls closer to see.

“Yeah, oui,” Bucky stammers, pulling away from the Frenchman. The thought of skin to skin contact makes him shudder in his now-filthy uniform, and he presses back against the bars, the cold metal providing a grounding sort of comfort.

“What’s it say?” Gabe tugs Dernier closer to himself. Dernier is okay with Gabe touching him and that’s about it.

Bucky shrugs, feels no shame when he informs them, “Sam Wilson.”

“Huh,” they all say, and the group of men sit for a minute, thinking that over. They would have thought Bucky would end up with a gal, not a platonic fella for a soulmate.

“So if it’s not on your wrist, where is it?” Jim questions, looking all over his body like he’d be able to see it from a few feet away.

“Back’a my head,” Bucky touches the spot where his Name is, near the bottom of his skull. “‘S’bout this big.” He shows with his fingers how tiny the Name is, leaving little space.

“Well that don’t make any sense,” Dum Dum retorts, surly as always. He’d been beaten today, so his attitude is even worse than normal. “Tiny and hidden on the back of your head. No way he’s real.”

“Of course he’s real!”

“Come on Dum Dum, don’t be an asshole!”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Just saying,” Dum Dum shrugs, and turns away to sleep. The other men hurry to lay down; Dum Dum snores like a fog horn, so it’s best to try to fall asleep before him. Bucky doesn’t bother, knowing he won’t be getting too much sleep that night. Illness is settling in, making him hack up a lung every so often. He knows he can survive it -- if Steve can, then so can he. But sleep is difficult when laying down makes his coughs worse, and his dreams are full of the faceless men he has killed. Every night, like clockwork, he checks his last kill’s dogtags and sees the name Sam Wilson.

So, no, he doesn’t lay down to sleep.

Gabe claps Bucky on the shoulder, keeping watch for their little group alongside Bucky. He says it’s so Bucky won’t be up alone, but they all know what goes on in his mind when he sleeps. Gabe’s got a girl back home, brothers and sisters, family. For some reason, his gun, just like Bucky’s, always aims for their heads in his dreams.

Despite it all, Gabe smiles at him. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s real. Fate just knows something you don’t.”

* * *

 

## 1992

Natasha watches Clint close the door behind him, face blank. He’s changed since the last time she saw him, now wearing loose clothing she’d expect to find in a hospital. His gear is gone. He looks much better like this.

“Hiya,” he says, leaning back. His body language is very open, his voice very friendly. It’s obvious they want her to trust him. “How're you holding up?”

She crosses her legs on the cot they gave her, cold toes tucking into the fabric of her sweatpants. She wishes they’d given her socks, but she isn’t about to ask for any. Eyes staying just to the right of his, she responds as honestly and as steadily as she can. There’s no sense in lying, not to him, not to the man who saved her. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, that’s okay. I don’t know either, sometimes.” He smiles wryly. “Uh, anyway, I got sent here to see if you needed anything.”

“If I needed anything.” She’s more interested in the fact that he was sent to her room, but this is a good line to fall back on. Makes it seem like she’s in shock and in awe at every little thing they do for her. Like the KGB didn’t give her anything she ever asked for (they didn’t).

He nods, overexcited. No agent with the KGB has ever been excited like this. It’s a nice, if disconcerting, change of pace. “Yep. Anything. I mean, within reason, but, uh, yeah. Anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. So, yeah, you need anything?”

“Socks.”

“I didn’t know Russians got cold,” he jokes.

She blinks at him, keeping her poker face; he squirms uncomfortably but, admirably, doesn’t look away. “Well, we do. I need socks.” She hesitates with her other request, curls her fingers into the extra fabric of her pants. He saved her, he let her choose what she wanted. But she isn’t sure if she can ask this of him.

Clint crosses his arms, muscles bulging with the movement. His muscles are big but she’s taken on bigger. He’s a threat but not a serious one. The only reason he got the drop on her was because she’d been distracted by Ilya. Stupid mudak, getting himself killed right in the middle of a fight. “Got something else in mind?”

“I know you said I can trust you.”

“But,” he prompts, suddenly serious.

She says delicately, “I need help with something and I don’t want it getting out.” The threat in her words is evident. _I don’t want this getting out. If it does, I’ll rip your spine out through your throat._

“Oh, hey, I can keep a secret. Not quite the best in the business, but I’m up there.” His smile turns cheeky.

She scowls at him, not amused. There’s nothing funny about this. Plus, she knows the best in the business. She _is_ the best in the business. “Clint.”

He freezes up, rolling his lips together. “Alright, alright. What it is that you need help with?”

Unconsciously, her fingers press to just under her skull, where her Name is. She hasn’t been allowed to do this her entire life. If she’d ever made it clear that she has a Name, that it’s at this spot, it would’ve been taken away. She’s never seen it, rarely touched it.

“I need you to tell me what my Name is,” she says, voice steady and quiet.

Surprise widens his face, mouth dropping open, eyebrows raising high. He must be a terrible spy, if he lets emotions rule him like this. “Your Name.”

“Yes, my Name. I can’t see it, it’s on the back of my head.”

“Yeah, okay. How do you wanna do this?”

She scoots to sit with one leg tucked under her, one outstretched. The floor is freezing cold; her toes rest against it gently, in vain. A chill spreads through her. She’s always cold but this room is so small and dark, the cold is seeping into her deeper than it usually does. “Just...here. Like this.”

“Alright. Um.” He moves over, sitting behind her, not touching but not too far away. She can’t help but tense up immediately, all warning bells ringing. _Too close,_ they say, _too close._ “Where’s it again?”

Her fingers, which had slid away, move back to her Name. “Here.” Anticipation wells in her, excitement over finally getting to know what her Name is. She’s wanted to know since it came in when she was eleven, though she’s killed every dream about it, about what it could be. Allowing herself to want it only makes the pain of not getting to have it worse. Still, she’s yearned for this for decades.

“Ahh, okay, nice.” He moves her hair around, whispering to himself so low she can barely hear him. The only thing her enhanced ears can pick up are mumbles. “It’s uh...Steven...Steve, uh Ro-- **Steven “Steve” Rogers**. Yeah. You got that or want me say it again?”

She whispers, “Steve Rogers. Where have I heard that name before?”

“Huh? Gotta speak up, I’m mostly deaf.” He stands, his touch leaving her. Natasha sighs, shoulders falling. Relief at being alone on the bed washes over her, followed by incredulity. Clint is too trusting -- or maybe this is another ploy to get her to trust him. There’s a small chance it’s both. Either way, admitting weakness to someone who was your enemy just yesterday? Not smart.

She moves back to the way she had been, back to the wall, legs crossed.

“I recognize the name.”

“Yeah, same. That was Captain America’s name.”

“What?” Her emotions betray her, voice coming out reedy. Captain America? Did he just say _Captain America_?

“His name was Captain Steve Rogers, yeah. Steven Grant Rogers. God, my handler always talks about him -- “

Natasha stands abruptly, light on her feet. Goddamn floor sends a sharp blade of ice up her spine. She moves to the door and opens it, maneuvering Clint in front of it. “Clint, that’s enough for tonight. Just go get me some socks. Thank you.” She smiles as innocently as she can, rubbing at her eyes and yawning for effect. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Goodnight.”

He smiles back, giddy and uncaring that she’s nearly pushing him out of her room. “Yeah, ‘course. Goodnight, Natasha.”

“Goodnight,” she says again, finally getting the door closed in front of him. Her forehead rests on the door as soon as she hears him move down the hall.

Captain America is her soulmate. (It could be someone else named that, but her luck is so poor, there’s no way it’s not him.)

Her soulmate. The perfect soldier, the most American man since George fucking Washington. Most influential person of the twentieth century. And he’s ‘mated to a Russian spy for the KGB. ‘Mated to someone who isn’t patriotic, who isn’t moral, who isn’t inherently good at all. He’s ‘mated to _her_.

A horrible thought, worse than any other, hits her like a freight train.

Captain America is dead. Her soulmate is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crumb - a loser by social standards  
> Mudak - Russian for 'asshole'
> 
> _They’ve always known that Bucky was gonna have to get with a girl with another gal for a ‘mate but he’d thought Steve would be at his side. A Russian dame will surely want him to go to her. Letters overseas take much longer than a shout across their apartment, than from the other side of the bed._  
>  Because there has been some confusion about this line, I wanted to clear it up. Bucky is saying that, because society believes that all same-sex soulmates are platonic, he will have to marry a woman who has a woman for a soulmate. He'd assumed that Steve would stay his friend and stay in New York, but now that Steve has a Russian soulmate, he thinks that Steve will have to move to Russia.
> 
> Hopefully that cleared it up!


	2. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate hates Sam Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: loss of parent, canon character death, depression, PTSD, panic attack, grief. If Kayla and Benjamin are to be believed, you will tear up in this chapter.  
> Also including: SamNat dates and Smol Sam being a nerd. Not in that order.

[ ](https://imgur.com/lUNO8cZ)

Sam’s one of those lucky people who are born with their Name.

Except not really ‘cause his Name is blurry, like someone licked their thumb and wiped at every letter until you couldn’t see what it said no more -- _anymore_. (Miss Ryan says he should say anymore, not no more. She says he sounds sharper, whatever that means.)

All he knows about it is that it’s there when he’s born and it’s long, three words (a first Name, a nick Name, and a last Name) stretching from wrist to elbow on his right arm. His Mama tells him the letters will be thick, and real big, as tall as his toes.

He also knows that he’s cold, all the time. So cold, the doctors when he was born were worried he was gonna stop breathing. Sam knows so, ‘cause his Mama said so and Mama knows everything plus she always tells the truth. Mama swears he’ll stop feeling so cold when his Name unblurs.

It only makes sense, then, that as Sam shivers under three blankets all by himself that he rubs at the Name and thinks _warmth_.

* * *

On the edge of summer, when Sam is twelve, Mama tiredly allows him to go to the basketball court. She’s got too much to do, with Sarah only a little baby, and another on the way. Her and Dad say he can go as long as he comes back at four thirty. His new watch says it’s only one forty five, so he’s got time.

He walks fast to the court, anyway, ‘cause he wants all the time he can get.

The kids at the court are a mix of some he knows from school and mostly ones he doesn’t.

One girl walks right up to him and asks, “you know how to play?”

“Yeah,” he says confidently, ‘cause he does know. Dad and his brother taught Sam ages ago.

“Yeah, but with a _legendary_ , you know how to play?” She stresses legendary, like he should know what that means the second she utters it.

He shrugs, truthfully saying, “I don’t know.”

She smirks, real big and real cute. “Well, you’re gonna learn. I’m Misty.”

“Sam.”

They shake hands like adults. Misty pulls away first, turning her back to him and walking towards the hoops.

“One on one?” She asks over her shoulder.

“Sure.”

* * *

At the music store, Sam asks Misty, “what kind of music do you think your ‘mates like?”

She buzzes her lips, looking through the rock section of vinyls. “I don’t know. He sounds like a jazz guy to me. Couldn't tell you about Jessica.”

Her Names are **Carl “Luke” Lucas** and **Jessica Jones**. “Huh. Yeah, I can see that. Maybe Jessica like rock?” He flicks a few records from the stack onto the front stack. The only one that’s jumped out at him so far is _Troubleman_. He’s got enough money to buy it; he pulls it out and sets it on top of the stack he just went through, so he doesn’t lose it.

"Maybe."

Sam peeks at Misty several times while he does it; she doesn’t look up from her own stack.

She does, however, sigh. “What kind of music do you think _your_ ‘mate likes?”

 _I thought you’d never ask._ “Probably...swing music. I always get a spring in my step when I hear big bands.”

Misty huffs a laugh, finally looking over at him. He shakes his hips, imitating an old dance. She laughs, pitches forward, and pecks him on the lips. She pulls away before he can make it any deeper, which he was definitely gonna do, even if there is a worker who can see them. “Stop bein’ silly, Sam. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

He shrugs. “I swear it’s true. Gimme a little Glen Miller and I’ll be doing a lindy hop in no time.”

She rolls her eyes now. “You don’t do _a_ lindy hop. There’s only the one.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So maybe you know it doesn’t work like that and -- nevermind.” She shakes her head, her ‘fro bouncing with the movement.

He has a feeling he knows what she was about to say. That he’s making things up, trying to get even more attention out of a blurred Name. Everyone accuses him of it, everyone except his family. It’s disheartening to say the least.

He flicks through another few records before moving over to the next stack. He tries to be as casual as possible when he says, “You know I run cold.”

“You have Raynaud's.”

“Raynaud's is just your hands. What I got isn’t like that. It’s...everywhere. All the time. Middle’a summer and I’m shivering.” Every second of every day all year long, his whole life, more like. He could dip his toes in hot lava and still have a chill.

She bites her lip. “Did the doctors really say it’s ‘cause your ‘mate or are you saying that?”

Cheekily, he replies, “yes.”

Misty sighs through her nose, just a little. This time, when she leans closer, she’s met halfway. He rubs the tips of their noses together, and she breaths, “You’re such a goof.”

He laughs, “I know.” Then her lips are pressing against his again and he’s not laughing anymore.

* * *

Sam’s apparently a late bloomer.

This hasn’t been true for most things about him -- puberty came at eleven like it did with all men in his family, he’s been dating for almost a whole year -- but fate must think it’s funny.

He’s sixteen, almost seventeen when it happens. To make matters worse, he’s in the middle of a presentation about the Hoover Dam when his Name unblurs.

The letters come into focus sharply, like a lens zooming in, blood dripping out of the spots where the letters are the clearest. The pain is so bad, so consuming, that he falls, cradling his arm to his chest.

“Oh, god!” His partner screams the second he sees the blood coming from Sam’s arm. The teacher is there quickly, pulling him up. His partner takes him to the office, hurrying with panic. (He can’t remember, but he thinks he almost threw up.) His mom gets there quickly, and Sam is ushered home. He doesn’t remember much of what happens between standing up in the nurse’s office and blinking up at his bedroom ceiling from his bed.

Sarah and Gideon are peeking into the room, giggling to each other behind his door. He slams his eyes shut and waits them out -- exhaustion pulls at him and he falls asleep before they can gather up enough bravery to come into his room.

When he wakes again, it’s dark out. Under his three blankets, he’s sweating.

The implications take his breath away. He’s finally warm. Finally, he’s going to see who his ‘mate is. _Finally_ , his heart sings.

Like his baby siblings, it takes him a while to scrounge up enough courage to pull his arm from the blankets and see what his Name is.

 **James “Bucky” Barnes**.

What the fuck.

* * *

Soulmates are whole people all on their own. Souls are whole, they just come in pairs. When one half of a pair dies, the remaining soul stitches itself up and toughs it out. When a soul has never touched its pair and never will, there’s nothing to be done.

Sam is a whole person; he doesn’t need Bucky Barnes to be that.

But god does he wish he did.

* * *

Sam goes out and he buys every book he can find that has Bucky Barnes in it. Textbooks with sections set aside for Captain America and the Howling Commandos, biographies and autobiographies about him and the Commandos.

His Mom finds him in bed most nights, curled around Jim Morita’s memoir, staring at the pictures, not really reading (he’s read every book two, three times, so it doesn’t matter).

“Sam,” she whispers, pulling him into her chest. She does it every time, holds him like he’s a baby. In the light of day he hate being babied but here, in the dark and in his bed, he aches for this comfort.

He cries into her chest, cries because he’s alone, cries because his soulmate is dead, cries and cries and cries.

* * *

Sam, once upon a time, had wanted to have a job just like his Dad. He’d wanted to preach. He’d wanted to give people hope.

Then his Dad died and he found out his soulmate had served.

Sam still loves his father with a devotion that death doesn’t get rid of. Even when they’d argued, even when Sam had given his apostasy and had a melt down thinking his parents would hate him for it, Sam had loved his father.

The reason why Sam decides to enlist after high school isn’t because he doesn’t love his father. God, no. It could never be that.

Sam, you have to remember, is a teenager. He’s barely eighteen and his life has not been easy. Like every other teenager, he wants and he desires and he wishes. Sam wants, desires, and wishes he had his soulmate. He craves closeness to the man he’s meant for but will never meet. He grieves with his whole being, for both his Dad and his ‘mate.

The thing is, they’re dead. They’re not coming back and he’s farther from them (from Harlem, from Brooklyn, from the patch of sidewalk his father died on and the streets his soulmate walked) than he ever has been before.

So his decision to join the Air Force has a little to do with that. He wants to feel close to his soulmate. He would join the Army, but his grandfather had been one of the Tuskegee Airmen. Mostly, it’s pride that has him enlist.

When Sam meets a guy named Riley, who is three years and two months older to the day, he gives that version. _My grandfather was a Tuskegee Airman, my grandmother was the nurse that sewed him up. My father held the Air Force in great esteem. I’m making them proud by being here._

It’s all true. He’s not lying when he says that. But it _feels_ like a lie.

* * *

Sometimes, people can get a second Name. In history, it’s only happened a few times. Always to women who lost their men in war or men who lost their women in childbirth.

Sam’s hoping that he can change that precedent and get Riley’s name on his wrist.

It doesn’t work that way, and he knows it. Riley knows it, too, knows what Sam secretly wishes for, but Riley is so perceptive it’s no surprise.

Sam gets drunk one night during their first and only R&R. He’s got Riley by his side, and he feels like he can do anything.

Anything apparently means baring his soul.

“‘Is fuckin’ useless, Riley,” he waves his left hand at his Name, “he’s dead and I’m not and it’s not fair! It’s not fuckin’ fair, Riley, why did it have to be him, why couldn’t’t’ve been you? I want _you_ , I don’ want a dead soldier from the World War Two!”

Riley winces along with him, shakes his head. “Sam, c’mon dude, you know why it didn’t happen like that.”

“Fate,” he spits. Fate is why Riley ended up with the woman of his dreams only to lose her after three years. Sam’s not an idiot, and drunk or not, he’s not about to go saying shit like that. One dead soulmate is enough for this conversation, and it’s not the one who was loved and lost.

“Fate,” Riley agrees. Fate is why Riley lost his wife and why Sam got a dead guy for a soulmate.

Fate is why Riley dies five weeks later.

Fate is why Sam comes home, honorably discharged, a month after that, dreaming of falls so great they are non-survivable. Fate is why Sam is so fucked up, the stars trigger him, and fate is why Sam will never fly again.

* * *

Sam talks a lot of shit about being chained to a dead guy but the reality is that he wants Bucky with every fiber of his being. He’d really rather yank out his teeth than admit that, but it’s the truth. Sam doesn’t get to meet his soulmate and he doesn’t get to love him or touch him or anything.

His heart is bleeding from losing Riley, and he’s already lost Bucky ( _I never_ had _him_ , his heart rages). He feels so alone in the world. Who else can say that their soulmate died about thirty years before they were born? Who else can say that they’re ‘mated to a dead person the way Sam can? Maybe there’s someone out there but Sam isn’t looking for them.

* * *

Laying in bed is exhausting. He never used to think so, but then, there used to be a time when Sam was normal. Before Bucky and before Riley. Before his Dad died.

Even after Dad died, Sam had liked being in bed. He could be under his blankets and no one could say anything about him being too old to still be dragging one around. He’d liked being weighted down, covered from chin to toes. The blankets on top of him had made him feel warm and safe and happy.

He hates it, now, hates his blankets (there’s too many) and his bed (it’s too soft, how can he sleep on this bed when he’s been sleeping on cots and the ground for so long?) and he hates, especially, his room (why did he ever paint his walls this shade of blue?).

This room belonged to a young Sam Wilson, who was grieving his soulmate but happy for what it was worth. That Sam Wilson could sleep in this bed and not feel like an outsider. That Sam Wilson could find it in himself to clean and eat and sleep.

 _That Sam Wilson is gone_ , he thinks as he stares at the ceiling fan. Gone, maybe not dead, but he’s certainly not here.

* * *

Mom drags Sam and his siblings out to iHop. Sam sits in the corner facing the room, back to the wall. There’s a window next to him, and he watches everyone that goes in and out through it. Lots of white families, none of them seeming particularly dangerous. One group of friends, mixed races, has a member who is or was JROTC. A couple, two women, one with a gun in her purse. There’s a party, a little boy turning seven, and his Dad was Army, if not Spec Ops. Sam can tell, because of his posture --

“Sam?” Sarah asks, flinching as he turns to face her too quickly.

“What?” He tries to put on a smile, but it feels like the one he used to put on for his Dad when he would preach to Sam.

She gestures to their server, a female teenager who would be able to hold her own long enough to get away. “What are you getting to drink?”

“Water,” he answers dully, and goes back to looking out the window.

He doesn’t see anything when he looks out now, just the parking lot and the sun in the sky. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns to look at the Panda Express parking lot.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“What are you going to eat?”

He shrugs, tries to think about what he wants. He’s not hungry, but his Mom is paying so he’s going to eat. He can’t remember what’s on the menu, and doesn’t want to go looking. “Stack of pancakes,” he says.

Riley liked omelettes and bacon. Sam doesn’t, not anymore.

* * *

Mom wants to have her book club come by the house. Sam would rather not be subjected to the group of ladies, who pinch his cheeks and thank him for his service and ask questions.

So he goes to the library fifteen minutes before the earliest of them will get there.

He walks through the sci-fi section to the history section. There are lots of books about Bucky Barnes, but he ignores those, going instead for the LGBT history books.

He finds one about soldiers and sits down at a table in a secluded corner where a teen is napping. He reads through it all the way, doesn’t look up from it until he’s done.

It’s dark out, and when he looks out the window, he sees the moon. His eyes dart away, but all he sees are stars. There are no clouds, just like that night.

Fuck.

He rubs at his eyes, pressing hard enough that squiggles dance in his vision. It’s a lot easier to look at those.

He stands, stretches out his back, and puts the book back. He’s gotta go home now, before the library closes. He’s a few floors up, and while it’d be easier to take the elevator, he goes for the stairs. He hates elevators, hates feeling so claustrophobic. He used to fly, used to have nothing but air around him. He doesn’t want walls --

He slips on the stairs, and the feeling of falling is enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. There’s nothing under him, and he doesn’t have his wings, and any moment now he’s going to catch on fire and fall and die and he knows it. _There was nothing under Riley_ , his heart whispers.

He spins his arms out like it’ll help, hands catching on the wall of the stairwell, hands catching on wind. It happens in slow motion, him falling. He lands on his hands and knees, not hard but not soft, either. Like falling on sand. It feels soft under your feet but when you fall, it’s solid, it hurts.

He crawls away from the steps, into a corner where he can put his back to the wall and the spiderwebs and hide his head in his knees.

He’s fine. He fell two steps. He’s in D.C., he’s not in Afghanistan, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. He’s fine. Two steps. Not thousands of feet, just two steps.

He’s gotta breathe, _you gotta breathe, Sam_. Come on, do it. Breathe.

Sam has to repeat it all to himself a hundred times before he can unfurl himself. His cheeks are wet and he’s breathing too heavy and fast to be safe. But it’s evening out, and he can get up.

Well. He can get up when feeling returns to his legs. Which will happen, he’ll make it happen if he has to, but for now...for now he’ll just stay here.

* * *

Sarah steps into his room one day, fiddling with something in her hands.

“Sam?” She asks, hesitant and unsure. “Can I talk to you?”

His first thought is that she’s been assaulted and doesn’t want to go to Mom. Which means he has to say yes.

He scoots over in his bed instead of replying, patting the spot he’d vacated. She comes and sits, perching at the edge. He hasn’t changed his sheets in too long but they aren’t that gross. Nothing like when he was a teenager, having to change them every day. He hasn’t…. Well, it’s been a while. Not that she needs to know that.

She has a brochure in her hand. “I -- I think you should look at this,” she stutters. “You could...um, you could use it.”

Then she gets up, leaves it on the bed, and bolts out.

It’s a brochure for the VA.

His heart twists, heat rising in his throat instantly.

He’s been avoiding the VA like the plague. He can’t go to the VA. He can’t talk about this, about his dead soulmate and his dead not-quite-boyfriend and his stupid fear of the sky and stairs of all goddamn things.

He swallows, pushes himself out of bed, and sets it on the desk where he used to do homework. It’s piled with papers, letters from his grandparents and friends overseas, applications for fast food places, and now this, a pamphlet for the VA.

* * *

He has a cellphone, but he rarely uses it. It’s too much to keep up with, the people wanting to talk to him on Facebook and Skype and just texting and calling him.

He checks it every once in awhile, and usually only ever looks at the pictures Gideon sends him. They have random people and drawings and animals on them, words on the top and bottom. He seems to think they’re hilarious, but Sam can’t find anything about them funny.

Gideon has also texted him things like, _do you want to come get ice cream with us_ , and _hey wanna hang out_ , and _I know you feel sick right now and I know I’ll never get it but if you ever wanna talk, I’m here_.

Sam stares at the texts. He thinks about the way Sarah had given him the brochure, thinks about the way Mom comes into his room and talks to him every day after she gets off work.

They’re all trying, all of them but him.

He can remember when his Dad died. He can remember it like it was yesterday -- they’d lived in Harlem at the time, and they were walking home from comic book shopping.

Dad had said something about going on ahead, he was going to go talk to his friend. Sam had walked maybe five steps before he heard his Dad shouting and a gun going off.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam had seen his Dad fall to the ground. There’d been no time to process it; he’d just dropped to the ground, covered his head and thought about nothing. All he could think in that moment was that he had to stay down.

The gang members ran eventually, leaving Sam and other bystanders cowering and shaking. They’d left his Dad dead on the sidewalk.

Sam could remember when his Mom found out, could remember taking care of Sarah and Gideon for a while afterwards. But eventually, Mom had forced herself out of bed and into therapy and she got better. She had to cover her Name, but she could take care of them and not fall to pieces.

Sam had raged to himself the entire time his Mom was shut up in her room, pissed off that he had to take care of two little kids, angry that he was the only adult there even though he was barely fourteen. He’s never said any of it out loud, and he never will.

But he starts to think, and he recognizes himself in his mother.

He’d been so angry at her for grieving, had wished she would get out of bed and do something every day until he finally lost all hope. He’d wished she would get help.

This epiphany hits him late at night, closer to sun up than sun down. He waits out the moon and he forces himself out of bed.

He isn’t ready for help. He knows he’s not.

A morning jog is better than staying in bed again, and something deep inside him, something that is thriving, tells him to just lay back down. He can run tomorrow.

Except he knows that game, and he won’t lose, not this time.

* * *

They put him in a group.

“You don’t have to talk,” they say. “Just sit and listen and if you wanna talk, you talk. If you don’t, then don’t. There’s no commitment.”

He says okay, and he sits between a guy with a teardrop tattoo and woman with hollow cheeks. The man is nice; he says hi and introduces himself as Jack. The woman doesn’t look away from her fingers in her lap.

There’s ten people in the group, not including him or the instructor. A woman goes first, talking about how she finally got her stuff back from her douchebag ex and how she feels a lot better in her own clothes. “My sister in law’s got a lot of pants. I don’t like pants,” she says. Everyone nods their heads like they know exactly why, and Sam follows their lead.

A guy goes next, telling a funny story about a spider in a shower and him thinking it was nothing compared to the ‘scary motherfuckers we saw out in Iraqistan’.

A few more go, one saying, “I don’t feel like sharing today,” and then it’s Jack’s turn.

“I freaked out about the silliest shit a few days ago. I got a neighbor who smokes, and there were ashes all over the front porch. I thought it had been from a fire, for some reason.” He laughs and shakes his head, embarrassed at himself. “I freaked out. Called my ex-wife and everything. God,” he scoffs. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Thank you for sharing,” the instructor says gently. “Sam?”

He wants to say, “I don’t feel like sharing today.” Instead, he blurts, “I tripped down two steps a few weeks ago and I had a panic attack.”

It’s progress. He can do progress.

* * *

Sam’s coworkers think they’re hilarious.

They would never purposefully do anything to hurt him or trigger him, but some of them (cough cough, Danielle and Jake, cough cough) like to prank him.

Apparently the idea this time is send him on a blind date with a brother of a friend of a friend.

This brother of a friend of a friend, Kevin Hampton -- oh, sorry, _Kev_ Hampton, he doesn’t like being called Kevin -- is best put in these terms: fucking annoying.

Sam is usually hesitant to judge people right off the bat but ever since they sat down at the little wine bar, Kev has talked his ear off. Sam has said maybe two sentences, no more than twenty words total. And it wasn’t about himself, either, no, it was about Kev. Kev doesn’t like his job. Kev doesn’t like D.C. Kev is only in town to make a break into politics. Kev doesn’t usually date black guys (which is about the time Sam decides he’s going to throw his chardonnay into Kev’s face and leave him to pay the bill).

Sam’s sitting back in his chair, taking one long sip so he doesn’t do anything rash. He’s about to stand up and chew this guy out, though, and the wine is only making his self control worse.

Kev’s going on about reproductive rights and how he’s going to crush them once he’s becomes a Big Shot Politician when a redheaded woman sidles up to the table. Kev shuts up long enough to look at her, eyes narrowed before he even sees her.

She smiles, big and wide, and crying loudly, “Sam, is that you? Oh my god, it’s been so long!”

She throws her arms around him, whispers in his ear, “go along with it until we can get you away from him.”

Sam’s usually not one to go along with charades like these but anything that gets him away from Kev is an opportunity he’s going to take.

The woman pulls away, hands on his shoulders. Her hands slide down to his biceps and hold him close. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been great, baby, how about you?”

She flutters her eyelashes, “I’ve been doing amazing, especially now that we ran into each other! I’m out celebrating, actually, I -- “

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Kev asks, tone lined with something Sam doesn’t like. His smile is genial, though, and his face open. He’s pissed but hiding it well. This guy will make a good politician.

The woman turns slightly, not letting him go. She gives Kev an up-down before looking him in the eyes. “I’m Natasha, Sam and I were best friends in high school. Who are _you_?”

Sam groans low in his throat, quiet enough Kev can’t hear. Natasha here just got Kev started all over again; they’ll be here until closing.

“I’m Kevin Hampton, call me Kev. Me and Sam are on a date, and you’re kind of interrupting, so…?” Kev quirks an eyebrow.

“Interrupting?” She asks, voice light. She doesn’t let go of Sam, and he’s starting to think that she’s holding him so close because it looks like she’s staking her claim. “Interrupting your life story, maybe.”

Sam chokes out a laugh. Kev does not find it nearly as funny as he does. His face shuts down, in the way Sam recognizes from the white boys he met in school and in the Air Force. Sam casually slings an arm around Natasha’s waist, pressing them even closer.

He stands, too, only an inch shorter than Sam. Natasha, in her heels, is the same height as Kev.

“Sam, let’s go. I don’t have time for this bitch to -- “

“What, you got something after this?” Natasha asks at the same time Sam snaps, “excuse me?” Did Kev really just say that?

Kev’s jaw jumps. “No, I don’t. I just have better things to do than -- “

“Than listen to this bitch shut you down?” Sam snaps. “First, you’re gonna be racist and sexist and now this bullshit. You gotta be delusional if you think I’m going anywhere else with you.”

Kev glowers, but Natasha cuts in before he can say anything. “I think you should go. Y’know, go back home to whoever you left there and hope they’ll forgive you for going out on a date with someone that isn’t them.”

Kev’s face pales instantly. Natasha takes his hand and pulls him away from the table before Kev can think of something to say to that.

“How’d you know he’s with someone?” Sam asks instead of asking the obvious.

She waits until they reach what he assumes is her table to answer. She has to pull herself up onto the chair, doing it much more gracefully than he himself does. “He had a tan line on his ring finger.”

Huh. Okay, onto bigger and better questions. “Okay. How’d you know my name?”

“I’ve been trying to find you. I went to the VA looking for you, but they said you were on a date here, so I came, apparently just in time.” She quirks an eyebrow, and it’s much cuter than when Kev did it. “You looked like you were about to throw your drink in his face.”

Sam laughs despite himself. He really should be asking why Natasha is looking for him but he can’t help laughing. “I was.”

Natasha smiles, different than the way she did before. This one is smaller, more amused. His heart skips a beat at the sight; she’s beautiful and he likes this smile much more than the one she put on for Kev.

“So, why were you looking for me?” His reputation as a Peer Specialist had gotten around, so maybe she’s a vet looking for some help.

She sighs through her nose, a quiet puff of air. “There’s no easy way to say this -- “ his heart jumps to his throat and his hands clench into fists because fuck that can’t be good “-- but I’ll try.” She glances up from the table at him. She pulls his right hand so that it’s flat and resting on top of her own; she makes sure his Name is on display. Her thin fingers drag over the name, and he shivers, the old feeling of freezing cold seizing him for a second. “Bucky Barnes.”

Feeling a little defensive, with anxiety still pumping through him, he says, “yeah, what about him?”

“Did you know that his Name was different, too? Letters were barely any bigger than a penny, and it was hidden in his hair.” She doesn’t look away from his Name. “Mine is like that, too. Very small and tucked away in my hair.”

“What’s your Name?” It’s rude to ask, but she’s already talking about his ‘mate like she knows him. She can’t ask about his Name expecting he won’t ask about hers.

“Steve Rogers.” She lets go of his arm, looking him in the eye. The look in her eye is one he knows well -- he sees it in his own all the time. “His Name was like yours, you know. Three Names, on his forearm instead of around his wrist.”

Sam clears his throat. “What does it mean?”

Natasha shrugs. “Fate did it, not me. I have no idea what it means. I just know that my soulmate was best friends with yours and they’re both dead.”

 _Dead_ , his heart cries like it does every damn time. _He’s dead_.

Sam sighs, drags a hand over his hair. “Yeah,” he gets out on a rasp. “You’re right.”

“I was thinking we could go somewhere more private, talk about this some more? I’m new in town so you’ll have to show me around.”

There’s something in those words, desperation or something similar. She wants him to befriend her and talk to her about her dead ‘mate.

He bites his lip, taking a leap he maybe shouldn’t. “Wanna go back to my place? I have a lot of books about the Commandos I could show you.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, just slides out of her seat and grabs a purse he hadn’t seen before. Then she reaches for his hand; he takes it.

“Is that a yes?” He asks.

She throws her head back, getting short red locks out of her eyes. Sam’s eyes follow the movement, lock on her throat as it’s exposed. “Yes, it’s a yes.”

* * *

When they go to the Smithsonian, Sam feels that his luck may be turning, that his slump may be over.

Natasha keeps smiling at him, making eye contact, laughing and teasing. They walk with her hand clutching his bicep. Every exhibit they see, they talk about in depth. Sometimes, the conversation turns to Bucky and Steve. Natasha is much better at talking about her soulmate than Sam is. They take turns listening attentively to each other. Natasha doesn’t say anything about him having to gather his thoughts before he speaks, and he doesn’t say anything about the way that Natasha keeps her words short and succinct.

It’s easy, spending time with her. Easier than he’d expected. Sparks fly between them, send jolts everywhere they touch. He’s attracted to her, physically and mentally, in a way he hasn’t been since Riley.

As Gideon would say, he’s totally interested. But it’s alright, ‘cause she is, too.

* * *

“You wanna roll first?”

“No, go ahead,” Nat replies, sitting back in her seat. Luckily, there’s padding, so their backs aren’t up against the uncomfortable wood.

“Alright.” He cups his hands, rattling the dice. _Gimme a twelve_ , he thinks, dropping the dice on the table. A four and a three. “Seven.”

She scoops them up, a teasing smile on her face. “Bet I can do better.”

“Oh yeah? How much you wanna bet?”

Pretending to think, she rests a finger on her chin. “Good question. It’s gotta be something I can use to embarrass you….”

“Oh, whoa there, no need for that.”

Nat smirks, shrugging. “How about a game of Truth or Dare? So that you have equal opportunity.”

“Sounds good.” Sounds great, even.

“I’m sure,” she demurs. She rolls, then, getting two fives. Sam groans dramatically, flopping back. “Ten. I won.”

“That’s just not fair.” He crosses his arms, trying to look offended.

She triumphantly ignores him, reaching for the spinner. She spins, the pin landing solidly over the seven. They both laugh, though Sam has a feeling he laughs more out of shock than she does.

“Getting the big numbers,” he casually puts out there. She meets his eyes, smiling.

“Maybe the board likes me,” she suggests.

“I don’t blame it.”

She shakes her head. Affectionately, “That was so cheesy.”

“Cheesy but true.”

“Sure. Anyway, I think I’m going to go the college route.” She lands on the spot that says ‘Spring Break in Florida. Pay $5,000.’ Pretending to grumble, she hands the money over, since he’s acting as the bank.

Sam spins, getting a two. “Really? C’mon, Milton, gimme a good number.” He lands on a spot that says, ‘Scholarship! Collect $20,000.’

“See, it _does_ like you,” she teases, spinning again. She has to stop to pick a college career; she chooses lawyer. “I’d be a great lawyer.”

“You like bossing people?”

“Is that what lawyers do? I thought they went in and tore down people’s stories until the truth comes out.”

They tease each other back and forth, through Sam getting a college career (he chooses doctor), getting married, having children, raises, and losing jobs. When they get to the fork in the road, Sam chooses Safe Route, while Nat chooses Risky Road. “Look at you, living on the wild side.”

She snorts, looking at all the spots for lawsuits. “Lawsuits are wild?”

“Sure they are. I mean, I was talking about the Spin to Win spots, but those too.”

In the end, Sam lands on ‘Pension! Collect $10,000 times spin.’ Finally, he gets a ten, the stupid spinner just now getting on his side. Even better, he has three kids to Nat’s two, so he gets an extra $30,000 when he retires. “I’m gonna go with...Countryside Acres.”

“Leaving the Millionaire Estates all to me?” She jokes, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, I can switch if you want. It won’t be any trouble at all.”

“There’s no need for that,” she laughs, repeating him from earlier. Once she parks her car in the retirement area, she leans back in her seat. Their eyes meet again; she’s softer than she was earlier, more open. “I know I said I wouldn’t like this, but it was fun.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never played a board game before this.”

She shrugs, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as she yawns. “Hasn’t been much opportunity, I guess.”

“Well, I’m glad to be your first.” He’s happy to introduce her to this, playing games, talking, teasing. She’s right, it _is_ fun. It’s relaxing, even if he did have to hunch over the table to reach his car. Plus, he enjoys talking with her. It’s absolutely no hardship to pop her board game cherry.

She smirks at his joke, rolling her eyes. “Didn’t know it would take that long.”

He tilts his head, eyebrows quirking up. A quick look outside shows that the afternoon sun is setting. “Took long enough for dinner time to roll around,” he suggests lightly.

Knowingly, she replies, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m pretty hungry.”

“Wanna go get something to eat?”

She stands, stretching out by arching her back. He averts his eyes, resolving to be a gentleman and not to look. “Where did you have in mind?”

He strokes his beard, pretending to think. He knows exactly where he wants to take her. “Friendly’s?”

* * *

They go on a few more dates before the game of Truth or Dare happens.

The sit on the floor of his living room, blankets laid out under them and piled in their laps. Sam’s got the heat turned up but it’s more fun this way, not quite touching, huddling under throw blankets and quilts his Grandma made. The one Nat’s got over her shoulders is the one he got when he left the Air Force, the one he slept under for months. The blanket wrapped around him is an old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles one that he got for his tenth birthday.

“Who goes first?”

She pulls her hair out from under the quilt, “I started last time, go ahead.”

“Alright… truth or dare?” Hopefully she chooses truth; he wants to know more about her.

“Which one is the easy one?”

“Dare.” It’s easier to lick the floor than reveal your deepest, darkest secrets. At least for him it is.

Her brow furrows, just a little, like she knows what he’s doing. He waggles his eyebrows, causing a glint to come to her eye. “Well, then, I choose dare.”

Dammit. He chews on the inside of his cheek, fingers curling around his blanket. What’s something he can have her do that’s immature but won’t kill her? Sam doesn’t want to hurt her.

“I dare you to mix ketchup and mustard and eat it.”

Nat blinks at him. “You’re kidding, right.”

It’s not a question; her incredulous tone makes him burst into laughter. He can’t help but throw his head back, amusement filling him.

She swats at his arm. “Sam!” He pitches forward, nearly bumping into her. She stands, exasperated, letting the blanket drop. As she moves to the kitchen, her hips sway, and she calls over her shoulder, “You coming?”

Sam rushes to his feet, scrambling after her. He’s half a step behind her quickly. They step up to the counter. Her eyes are steely, now, like she’s accepted her dare and is ready to mix ketchup and mustard together. God, she’s amazing.

“How do you want me to do this?”

He hadn’t thought this far. “In a cup?”

Without responding, Nat opens up the cupboard and pulls down one of his smaller glasses. He reaches into the fridge, helpfully pulling out the ketchup and mustard. She takes them from him, meeting his eyes. The corners of her lips curl up.

He can’t help himself -- he leans forward and kisses her. It’s not their first kiss, but it’s among the few. She indulges him for just a moment, going up on her tiptoes and deepens the kiss. Just as he’s gearing up to slip her some tongue, she pulls away, setting the ketchup down and pressing her hand to his chest. “Nope. I have a dare to complete.”

“Fine, fine,” he concedes, backing up to let her face the counter. As soon as she’s not facing him, he sidles up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. She opens the bottles, squeezing the mustard first, then the ketchup, into the cup. “You should stir it.”

She scoffs, rolling her head back on his shoulder. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Fine, okay,” she sighs, opening up the drawer with the utensils in it. She pulls out a spoon and quickly stirs the concoction.

Sam pretends to gag; she looks over her shoulder, eyes narrowed in a glare. Then she stabs him in the stomach with her pointy elbow. He grunts, loosening his hold.

Then she downs it like a shot, not breaking eye contact. What a badass. He stares, mouth open with surprise.

She doesn’t make a noise until after she’s set the cup down. There’s nothing left in it; she downed it all. Her only reaction is a shudder and a groan.

Feeling an odd mix of giddy and ill, he asks, “Are you gonna -- do you need the trashcan?”

Her eyes flash at him, hair moving around her face as she shakes her head. “No, no, let’s just go back to the living room. Keep playing.”

Skeptically, he raises an eyebrow, though he doesn’t say anything. He trusts her to know if she’s gonna get sick or not. When they settle down in the living room, she sits just a little closer than before.

“Truth or dare?”

 _Ask me an embarrassing question or give me a dare just as bad as mine in retaliation,_ more like. “Uhhh truth.”

Nat’s smirk shows just a hint of teeth. “Should we start off easy or do you want to jump right in?”

“If I say easy, will you ask an easy question?”

She blinks innocently. “Of course.”

That’s not suspicious at all. Sam chuckles through his nose. “Go easy on me then. Been awhile since I played this game.”

“How long is awhile?” She peers at him from under her eyelashes. Sam hasn’t gone on a date in too long, let alone been flirted with by someone he doesn’t see in therapy every week.

Flirty, he glances upward, like it’s embarrassing. Well, it _is_ , but she doesn’t need to know that. “Long enough.” Sounds better than since Riley, right?

“Well then, I will go very easy on you. Don’t want you to strain anything.”

Sam wants to keep up the charade, but -- “How would I strain anything answering a hard question?”

She laughs, “I don’t know. I mean, I know people who have a hard time answering what they want for breakfast.”

“For breakfast? What?”

She shrugs knowingly. “He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Anyway, my question is...what were you like in high school?”

High school had been hell on earth for Sam. Freshman year in Harlem had been fun, though he’d been so preoccupied with the two little kids in the house that he rarely had time for homework. Then his Dad died and they moved and he found out his soulmate died long before they could ever meet. He’d had to raise Sarah and Gideon for a while there, too. But he’s only known Nat for two weeks, and this is too heavy for most of his friends.

“Um...my Dad died after freshman year so we moved from Harlem to here.” Her body softens, mouth turning down into a slight frown. There’s no pity in her eyes, thank god. “It was tough but other than that, it was fine. I played on lots of the sports teams. Had lots of friends.”

“Lots of girlfriends?”

He sighs, widening his eyes. “No, only two. Leila and Misty.”

She grins; Sam’s heart leaps at how _cute_ she is. “You remember their names? That’s adorable.”

Adorable? Sam is not adorable. “Leila was my first kiss and Misty was my first love, of course I remember their names.”

Her teeth slide over her bottom lip, not quite biting. “Huh. Okay. My turn?”

“Yeah, sure. Truth or dare?”

“I’ll pick truth. But go easy on me, okay?” There’s an innuendo in there, he’s sure. The look she’s giving him surely isn’t innocent.

“Of course. What boyfriends are in your past?”

She purses her lips. “Hmm. Well, there’s Alexei and Yasha.”

“You Russian?”

“Yeah. Born and bred.”

“Huh, alright. So who are Alexei and Yasha?”

Nat licks her lips. “They’re difficult to explain. Not really fifth date material, you know?”

“That’s okay. You can tell me some other time. As long as I don’t have to worry about ‘em, I mean,” he teases.

She chuckles. “No, you don’t. They’re long gone, back in Russia.”

“When’d you immigrate, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I thought your turn was over?”

“Fine, fine. Go ahead.”

“Truth or dare?”

“How about a dare this time?”

Excitedly, she says, “I dare you to let me text someone in your phone.”

As soon as she says it, anxiety curls a cold fist around his stomach. “Uh. I’m allowed to veto certain numbers, right?”

“Hmm. I’ll give you one veto.”

Sighing, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He puts in his passcode -- Riley’s birthday, 0619 -- and clicks on his contacts app. Then, despite how anxious he is, he hands her the phone.

She scrolls, making little noises. “Grandma? Sarah? Riley?”

“No,” he barks, startling her. “Not Riley. He’s my veto.”

Blinking, mouth open, she nods. “Okay. Sarah okay?”

He rubs at his temples with his forefinger and thumb. “Sorry. Sorry, yeah, she’s good. That’s my sister.”

“Alright. Um, let’s see…. How old is she?”

“Twenty.” When she gives a grin, he adds, “I don’t like that look. Nat, she’s gonna think it’s _me_ texting her.”

“I know, I know,” she says, waving a hand and not looking up from the screen. Then she taps at the screen, pressing send and handing it back with a smirk.

**Sam: A B C D E F G. Gummy bears are chasing me. One is red, one is blue. One is chewing up my shoe. Now I’m running for my life, ‘cause the red one’s got a knife.**

“Nat, what the hell,” he laughs. “She’s gonna think I’m going crazy.”

“Eh. You wanna go while we wait for her to text back?”

“Sure, okay. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Hmm. What are you afraid of?”

She drags a hand through her hair. “That friend I was talking about earlier? The one who can’t make easy decisions? I’m scared of his cooking. I’m scared of...some things back in Russia. Ramen noodles. Small children. Uh, binge-watching.”

“What? Binge watching? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

“How?” He chuckles.

“Sitting in one spot too long can hurt your back. It can cause you to lose muscle mass. It’s a waste of your time. There’s no suspense, no waiting. Nothing makes you get up but your base needs of eating and using the bathroom.”

With every word, he can’t help laughing harder. “Nat. Are you seriously saying you’ve never known the pleasure of watching your favorite show for hours? The pleasure of resting and eating and not having to worry about anything?”

“I’m not changing my mind,” she says, crossing her arms.

He raises his hands up, “Alright. Not gonna try to make you.”

“Good. Now, has Sarah responded yet?”

He checks; “Yeah, she has.”

“What’d she say?”

“‘Sam, what the hell are you talking about?’”

“Can I text back?”

“Nope, your turn is over,” he says, texting back, **‘Playing truth or dare, got dared to let someone text someone in my phone.’**

**Sarah: Ooh, who are you playing with?**

**Sam: None of your business.**

**Sarah: Is it a girl? It’s gotta be a girl if ur gonna act like that.**

“Did I lose you to Sarah?”

He looks up, grins, shakes his head. “Nope. Your turn.”

“Okay, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Out of all your jobs, which has been your favorite?”

“It’s a toss up between pararescue and a waiter at Olive Garden.” What? Those breadsticks are delicious.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Being a babysitter wasn’t very fun.”

“You were a babysitter?” She smiles. “Aww.”

“Why is it I’m adorable and aww but you’re not?”

She squints at him. “Who said I’m not adorable? I need names.”

“Hey, hey, it wasn’t me. I think you’re precious."

Nat gets up on her knees, lays a hand on his cheek. He nuzzles into it, closing his eyes as affection for her washes over him. She lifts his head by the hinge of his jaw, pressing a kiss to his lips. She pulls away just enough to whisper, “I know.”

* * *

“Where’s your Name?” He asks one morning a few months later, as they lay in bed. They’re both dressed, since she got in late. Work keeps her away a lot, so usually when they see each other, they don’t waste any time. But he’d been asleep the night before and Nat was tired, anyway. Sleeping in the same bed and not doing other things before or after feels nice to Sam, like he’s finally in an adult relationship. He likes that there’s nothing sexual about this moment.

She turns onto her front, tilts her head forward so her hair falls around her face. Her fingers come up to her head, and feel around for a moment before stilling. “Here.”

“Can I?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He rolls closer, leaning over her. Gently, he parts her hair. In tiny print he can barely make out, he sees the Name **Steven “Steve” Rogers**.

“His Name was **Natalia ‘Natasha’ Romanova**.”

“That your birth name?” He strokes the name lightly.

“Yeah. I told you I was Russian, didn’t I?”

She had. She’d told him lots of things, like her marriage to Alexei Shostakov, and her childhood in orphanages. She’d even whispered to him once that the people who ran the orphanages and the places she lived afterwards were known to burn Names off. She hadn’t known what her Name was until after she got to America.

“Why do you think Bucky’s was like yours?” He blurts.

“Why do you think Steve’s was like yours?” She counters.

He has to concede to that point. He rolls back onto his side of the bed, welcoming her when she rests her head on his chest. Arms wrapped around each other, half dressed, he feels an odd mix of comfortable and sad. Nat makes him so happy, even when she’s texting him stupid puns from wherever it is work takes her. But talking about Bucky makes his heart ache. He wants to stay with Nat forever, he thinks, but his heart is hung up on Bucky Barnes. They’ve never even met, for God’s sake, but he can’t help it.

“I don’t know.”

Her fingers draw shapes onto his bare chest. “Sam, I’ve been meaning to say…. I know you’re in love with the idea of Bucky, and I think you know that I’m,” she bites her lip,  _ kind of _ in love with the idea of Steve.”

He wants to say no, wants to say she’s wrong about him. But Nat can read him better than anyone he’s ever met and sometimes it seems like she knows things about him that he doesn’t.

He also wants to say that it doesn’t matter who’s in love with who, doesn’t matter that fate didn’t decide they were made for each other. He wants to say that he loves her; that Bucky Barnes is dead and she isn’t, so it doesn’t _matter_.

He says, instead, “Is that...okay?”

They stare at each other for a few moments, thinking. Is it okay that they’re both in love with the idea of other people? Is it okay that they aren’t meant for each other? It is for Sam. The people they’re in love with are gone, and maybe they aren’t perfect for each other but it doesn’t matter. They’re great together. You should see the way they tease Sarah and Gideon.

Nat agrees, “Yeah, I think so.”

She smiles at him, her real smile, and he can’t help but smile back.

* * *

When Nat moves in, she doesn’t bring much. A few bags of clothes, bathroom supplies including shampoo and make up bags and a chair she says she simply can’t part with.

Honestly he’d be cool with her bringing whatever she wants, as long as there’s somewhere to put it. He can easily make room for her chair.

The largest piece of furniture she brings is an armory that she easily carries into his office.

“Looks heavy.”

“It’s empty,” she explains. “I got it.”

He chuckles at her tone, strong and all _I don’t need your help_. “Alright, alright. You mind if I put your books on my shelf?”

“No, that’s fine. Maybe keep them separate?”

“Sure.”

And really, it’s that easy. Her makeup bag goes next to his shaving kit, her soap next to his. Her soft, comfy pillow gets to stay next to his less soft but just as comfy one, for good this time. There’s maybe five minutes of friction before everything just slots together perfectly.

Something tells Sam that she’s the one. (Even if she does press her cold nose to his skin and say, “I’m Russian, Sam. I’m made of ice.”)

* * *

Domestic life treats Natasha oddly well, considering.

Sam is a wonderful man, one of the best she’s ever met. He’s always there for her. He’s not perfect and he understands that. Alexei couldn’t admit there was something wrong with him. Sam is actively trying to help himself. And he’s so kind. He’s a great cook, and he eats her borscht without complaining. He tends to her wounds and understands she can’t talk about them. (Though he does get frustrated, he rarely asks. And when he does, he adds, “Yeah, I know, you can’t say.”)

Plus, he’s great in bed. Both cuddling and other activities.

At the risk of sounding too much like a teenage girl, Sam is different from other guys.

Nick gives her his best ‘you had better be kidding me’ look from behind his desk. “I know you did not just say that.”

Natasha shrugs, fingers twirling a pen she stole from his desk. “It’s true.”

“I don’t care if he paints your nails and lets you vent about your day. Don’t tell me he’s different.”

She narrows her eyes at him, popping her gum. “Be serious, Nick.”

“I am, Natasha. Just because he’s got a head on his shoulders doesn’t mean he’s a good man.” He knows all about Alexei. Knows all about the things he did that were smart, good. Knows all about the things he did that were horrible, evil. He’s just trying to protect her, she knows.

The only problem is, she doesn’t need his protection from Sam. Sam isn’t going to hurt her. “He works at the VA. Then he comes home and compliments my paprikash.”

Nick rolls his eye, evidently not impressed. “How generous of him.”

She wants to make it clear to him that Sam is the good guy she’s saying he is. But how can she do that without revealing things she doesn’t know if he’s okay with being shared around? “You know he used to be pararescue?”

Nick just looks at her. Of course he knows.

“He’s trying, Nick. He’s trying to get better. When he has bad days, he wants to talk about them. He doesn’t hide things from me.” Which is a big deal, and he knows it.

“Mm.” His face doesn’t change.

She leans back, sighs gently. “Just tell me what you think of him.”

He purses his lips, shifts in his seat. This is more telling than anything else. “He seems acceptable. Good job. Honorable discharge.”

They stare at each other. _Come on, Nick. Tell me the truth._

“You could do worse,” is all he says, a concession in its own right.

Natasha lets a minuscule smile grace her lips. “I don’t think I could do much better, honestly.”

* * *

“Clint says it’s a hallmark of any good relationship,” Nat cajoles. She’s been going on since the night before, after they’d gotten out of the shower. Making puppy eyes at him and pouting and trying to seduce him into it.

Sam flips a pancake before responding. “I thought we never listened to Clint’s dating advice.”

Scraping the eggs onto a plate, she shrugs. Blatantly using a salesman voice, she says, “I don’t know, I like this advice.”

“Since when do you like pets?” She’s told him before that dogs aren’t her thing. No fish, no hamsters, no cats. _I can’t do pets,_ she’s told him.

She scoffs, giving him a faux-scandalized look over the now-empty bowl. “Excuse me, I have always loved pets. I’ve just never had one. No time.”

He slides the pancake onto the plate, pours out one last one. He throws the blueberries in. Then he has to deal with the bacon -- he pulls it out of the oven, hands the pan off to Nat, who meets his eyes. “Suddenly you have time?”

“Mm. I have a stable place now, and I’m taking more time off than usual. So, kinda, yeah.”

“You’re right. Hold on, lemme get this last pancake….”

A few minutes pass by with the two of them readying the table, orange juice for Sam, lemonade for Nat. Once they’re all settled, he says, “So, shelter cats.”

“Yes.” She stabs a piece of egg, pops it in her mouth. “They’ll probably end up being your responsibility more than mine. But...I think it’ll be nice to have something that’s _ours_ , that can keep us company when we’re here alone.”

He _would_ like that…. He pushes his food around, cuts off bites of his pancake and eats it. Having cats would be nice. They’d sleep with him at night, and they would be something that he and Natasha could share.

“How many are you thinking?”

“One each?”

“Mm, maybe. Let’s just see what happens.”

* * *

The shelter they go to has many cats, of all different breeds. Most of them are older, at least two. Their guide tells them that the kittens go quicker, suggesting subtly that they should look at the older cats.

Natasha pays the guide no mind and heads straight for one wall of cages. Most of the kitties perk up when they hear her, meowing and stretching. She pets a few as Sam looks on the other wall, smiling widely.

She’s always loved cats. When she was a little girl, her handler often brought her cat to the bases, a calico named Serafina. Later on, Alexei had allowed her to have one, a Russian Blue she’d named Dima. Dima had been her fiercest defender and closest companion. She hasn’t seen Dima since the day Alexei died, which was long enough ago that Dima is surely gone.

It’s okay, though. Dima will stay in her heart, but she’ll make room for a new cat. Maybe two, if Sam finds one.

A black cat presses its nose right up against Natasha’s fingers, rubbing whiskers and fur delicately against her. Natasha’s heart melts, a coo coming out as she pets the cat.

“Tell me about this one,” she says.

The guide comes over and smiles wide. “This one is Liho. She’s been spayed. She’s about two years old. Do you want me to take her out?”

“Yes.” The cage door gets opened and then Liho is in Natasha’s arms. Liho meows, putting her paws on Natasha’s shoulders and rubbing her face against Natasha’s jaw. “Hi,” she murmurs.

Sam comes over, scratching Liho behind the ear. “She’s cute.”

“I know, so cute,” she baby-talks. In her regular voice, she asks, “Did you find one you like?”

He nods excitedly, turning to where he’d been and pointing at a mostly white cat. “Yeah! That one really likes me.”

“Figaro?” The guide asks, sweeping over. Sam nods. “Oh good! He’s been here longer than most of the others have. He’s been neutered and we’ve aged him at about three years old, so just a little older than Liho.”

Sam and Natasha share a look -- this works out just about perfectly. “Let’s bring him out, see if they like each other.”

The guide gets Figaro out of his cage and into Sam’s arms quickly, then escorts them to the play room. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to see how it’s going, okay?”

They say okay, sit down, and let the cats feel each other out. After some sniffing and a few hisses, Liho inches past Figaro to get to Sam. Sam watches with his cutest smile, though she can see from the lines of his body that he’s ready to get out of the way if they fight.

Figaro cautiously lets Liho move to Sam, backing up and turning to keep his eyes on her. Liho sniffs Sam, jumps into his lap, and promptly presses her nose to his cheek. Figaro, not about to be outdone, does the same to Natasha, then curls up in her lap like he owns it.

They meow at each other a few times, and chase the toys that Natasha and Sam play with. By the time fifteen minutes have passed, they’ve decided that these cats will be theirs.

* * *

The second Natasha goes to the bathroom during their first Thanksgiving dinner together, Sam’s family pounces. They go from relaxing in their chairs, groaning and on the edge of a food coma, to sitting forward attentively. If Grandma Mae leans any closer to him, her hair will be touching the leftover casserole on her plate.

“Where did you find this girl again?” Grandma Mae asks. She’s been quiet most of the dinner, eyeing Natasha over a glass of wine. Now, she’s focused on him.

“She found me,” he reminds. They all know the story, and he _knows_ they know since he’s been forced to retell it several times. Just about every old person in Harlem knows about Sam and Natasha’s relationship since his grandparents don’t know what ‘don’t go telling everyone you know about this’ means.

“And how serious do you think she is about you?” His mom questions, concern lacing her words.

“I don’t know, the same amount of serious that I am about her?”

“Are you asking us or telling us?” Grandpa Eugene demands.

“I’m telling you,” he says, convictions stronger. He always hates when Grandpa pulls out that line.

Grandpa softens, voice turning gentle. “Then be confident, Sam. Is she serious about you?”

“Yes, she is.”

The moment is over almost as soon as he says it, ruined by Gideon. “She’s so hot,” he practically salivates. “And committed, too? How’d you get so lucky?”

“She’s not a piece of meat,” Sarah counters fiercely, the second he’s done talking. They argue all the time, so Sam isn’t at all surprised.

Gideon scoffs. “I know! I didn’t say she was -- “

His grandparents and Mom all roll their eyes, fed up. This is far from their first fight of the night. In an effort to shut them up, Sam cuts in, “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Gideon, to be honest, I don’t know how.”

Grandma Florence smiles and says, “Well, I like her.”

“Hear hear,” Grandpa Eugene and Mom agree, lifting their glasses in a toast.

“Keep her,” Sarah adds, Grandma Mae and Gideon nodding along.

Sam can’t help himself; he chuckles and raises his glass.

Nat comes out soon after to find the Wilsons exactly as she had left them. Sam welcomes her back with a kiss on the cheek and a smile that she can’t help but return.

(Yeah, she’s as serious about him as he is about her. His grandparents approve.)

[ ](https://imgur.com/E7cZuyL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raynaud's - a condition in which some areas of the body feel numb and cool in certain circumstances, specifically the fingers, toes, ears, and tip of the nose.  
> [Friendly's](https://www.friendlys.com/menu/) \- a real life restaurant that Cali features in their fic (which I cameo in as Dottie the waitress at Friendly's!). Link goes to menu.
> 
> Because of this chapter, Keri now ships SamNat. You're welcome.


	3. Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: alien-related panic attack, not eating due to depression, anxiety, internal struggles, grief, Sam having Thoughts about Steve while in a relationship with Nat, several minor instances of soulmate-related relationship issues.

[ ](https://imgur.com/EcaoDNs)

Natasha is gone for work longer than usual in May 2012.

Sam isn’t too worried about it, honestly. They can’t text while she’s gone this time, but Clint sometimes texts him updates. Usually they say things like _‘she’s doing great’_ and thumbs up emojis.

A few days without an update is not something to freak out over, generally, but once a few days has passed into several days, anxiety starts pooling in his chest. His thoughts turn to what if’s and how she could be hurt and all kinds of things that don’t hold any water. There’s no way to stop the thoughts, though. For all the videos he’s watched and all the books he’s read to get his job, he still doesn’t know how to help himself.

Bettie at the front desk asks as he walks into work, “You okay, Sam?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks. You?”

“Fine,” she says back breezily, “Ally’s coming up tomorrow, I’m really excited to see her.”

He smiles. “Awesome! Tell her I said hi, will you?”

“Of course!” She looks ready to talk more about her girlfriend, who lives in Richmond, but the phone rings. “Gotta take this. Have a good day!”

He waves, beaming a smile, “You too.”

He settles his stuff in his office, makes sure his shirt is tucked in, and checks his phone one last time. The screen shows a picture of him and Nat, snowflakes falling down around them. It’s one of his favorite pictures of them; it brings him back to that moment every time, and he’d been _so_ happy. But now, it doesn’t bring him back, it just tells him there’s no texts.

He rolls out his shoulders and wrists, breathes in and out a few times, and goes to his first appointment.

First is Julie, a woman who served in the Navy and lost her ‘mate just after she got out. She came to him personally -- it’s well known among the vets of D.C. that his ‘mate is dead and he’s not completely fucked up. That he’s happy.

He brings her back to his office, says, “I thought we could just talk for today. Y’know, get to know each other a little better.”

She looks around his office, finds every exit. Eventually, she looks at him. “Um, okay. Where should we start?”

He rubs his jaw. “Wherever you want. Most people like to start off by telling me the basics -- name, age, where you’re from, etc.”

She looks relieved to have somewhere to start. “I’m Julie Hart, I’m thirty-one, um, I’m from St. Louis…um, yeah.” She blushes and looks away.

Sam sits back, tries to make himself non-threatening. Sometimes it doesn’t work; sometimes he can’t help the way he responds to the stories he hears. His shoulders will draw up tight, hands clench into fists. When that happens, he sends his clients out to Bettie so he can settle himself again.

She calms at his changed posture, enough that he can ask a few more questions and get real answers. With every answered question, he becomes more and more sure that she’ll get through it. She’ll come out on the other side. Her PTSD and anxiety aside, Sam can see she’s strong -- shy, but determined to start healing.

The appointment is almost over when his phone buzzes loudly, making the same noise it does when there’s an Amber Alert.

Both he and Julie jump nearly out of their seats. Shit. _Shit shit shit._

He pulls out his phone, fingers unsteady from how loud the fucking noise was.

_BREAKING: Alien Invasion In Progress In NYC_

“What the fuck,” he and Julie say the same time. They lock eyes. Somehow, between the two of them, she’s the calm one.

* * *

He must call Nat a hundred, two hundred times. He has no idea where she is and his heart is pounding out of his chest with worry. He can hear his breathing getting short and sharp and heavy, a sure sign that he’s about to panic. Every thought makes his heart rate spike.

He’s still at the VA, and everyone else in the building is sitting around the rec room, watching the TV. But Sam can’t stay in there anymore, he can’t breathe, there are too many people. He stumbles down the hall, locks himself in his office and curls into the corner so he can see the whole room.

There are lots of paintings on the walls. A few pictures of himself, Riley, Nat, and his family. A bookshelf full of books. He makes himself count them, makes himself take an unofficial inventory like every other time this happens.

Bettie knocks on the door, crying loud enough that he can hear, “Sam?”

“Can’t,” he shouts back.

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I am!”

“Okay,” she sniffles, and walks away.

Sam’s forehead rests on his knees.

Fuck.

* * *

His phone rings constantly for the next few hours, his friends and his family calling to check on him or vent or something.

He doesn’t answer any of them, just lets it ring. Talking is _hard_ , sometimes. Charming as he is, phone calls are hell.

When he’s having a panic attack, he’s found, he can’t talk to people. He has to pull himself out of one alone.

Sitting in his corner, back cushioned by a pillow he has especially for this, he counts his books and ignores his phone and tries to breathe normally.

* * *

It’s over by one thirty. The danger has passed, but it’s no consolation for those who died or got hurt. It doesn’t change the fact that the entire world is having a crisis right now.

He braves Facebook and sees that his friends back in Harlem are fine. Apparently, the aliens were only in Midtown; they didn’t get that far. Misty’s last post says, “Safe in Midtown, not hurt”. He comments, “Thank god”.

He calls Natasha again, biting his nails. She doesn’t answer. He spits out a nail while he’s told how to leave a message. When the automated voice finally shuts up, he says, “Nat, hey, please call me back. I’m really worried over here. Love you.”

He ends the call and drops his phone on his desk. He can’t help tapping his foot, no matter how much he wants to be still and calm. Sweat is coating his armpits and his brow and his whole body feels clammy.

God, he hates this.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night, is still up the next morning when the morning shows come on. All they can talk about is the invasion -- the Battle of New York, they’ve dubbed it -- and the Avengers who fought and conquered the aliens.

He watches the TV without moving for hours. He’s not really noticing anything they’re saying, just looking. Nothing registers. He nods off a few times, but always jerks awake to the feeling of falling.

Needless to say, he’s not doing so hot.

* * *

Day two post invasion, Natasha finally calls him back.

He’s laying in bed, sweating through his clothes because now he runs too hot. It’s moments like these (more like depressive episodes than moments) that he wishes he were still cold. It’s so much easier to deal with being cold.

His phone rings again, the ringtone he has specifically for Nat blaring. “ _Let’s get it on…._ ”

He jolts out of bed too fast, black spots encroaching in his vision. Shit, when did he last eat?

Doesn’t matter, not when Nat’s calling.

He grabs the phone and swipes, breathlessly saying, “Hello? Nat?”

“Sam,” she replies, voice a little rusty in a way that’s not familiar. His heart races at hearing her voice even if it does sound like she’s been swallowing gravel.

“Sweetheart, Jesus, I was worried. Where are you?”

She’s told him, vaguely, where she’s gone for work before. He expects somewhere far away, like Rio, or Cape Town, or maybe Seoul. “Listen, Sam, I need you to stay calm, okay? I’m perfectly fine, remember that.”

He freezes. “Nat, where are you.”

“I’m in New York.”

“What?” He chokes out. “Are you okay? Jesus Christ, baby, are you hurt?”

There’s a pause, and his breath catches in his throat. “Yeah, I am, but Sam -- “

He doesn’t hear whatever she says next. All he hears is that she was hurt and all he can think is that he must be fucking cursed. First Bucky gets experimented on and dies by falling off a goddamn train, then Dad is shot in the street like a rabid dog, then Riley dies because Sam didn’t see the RPG in time, and now Nat is hurt, probably horribly so. Everyone that’s lived hurt seems to have lost limbs or are in comas.

Fuck, Nat is hurt and he’s here in D.C. and she’s all alone in New York. What’s he still doing here? She needs him _there_.

“Sam! Sam!” Natasha calls, voice raised. “Sam, listen to me!”

“What,” he snaps, unable to help himself. Later on, he’ll regret it, but panic is swelling in his throat, anticipation and adrenaline hyping him up.

“I promise you, I am fine. I got a few cuts and scrapes, and I twisted my ankle, that’s all. I’m safe.”

Her words don’t assure him at all. He won’t believe her until he can see that she’s okay.

“I’m coming to New York,” he decides, moving to the closet and pulling clothes out haphazardly. “Where are you? I’ll be there in four hours.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” He irritably shoves his stuff into his bag and barely remembers to grab his phone charger.

“The roads are blocked, and there aren’t any planes to or from.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m coming.” He’s not leaving her alone after what happened, no way, no how.

She sighs, audibly pinches the bridge of her nose. “Will coming make you feel better?”

“Yes,” he grabs the keys and puts as much conviction into his tone as possible.

“Are you okay to drive?” The concern she has is touching but misdirected, he thinks. She should be worried about herself.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Nat.” He isn’t, he knows he’s not, but he has to get to her. He _has_ to.

“If you’re sure….”

“I am.” He puts his backpack in the backseat and settles himself in the car. “I’ll be right there.” Right there in five-ish hours, probably, but whatever.

“Be safe,” she demands, quietly adding, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Natasha pulls the phone away from her ear with a sigh. Sam’s probably going to kill himself trying to get to the Tower. She rubs at her brow with her free hand, wishing like hell that he would just wait for her to come to him.

“Who’s ’at?” Tony asks, coming to stand next to her. The floor they’re on is relatively undamaged; it was once offices but now the rooms are being repurposed as bedrooms. She’s standing by the windows, watching the people on the ground. Thor’s already gone, so it’s just Steve out there, helping lift rubble. He told her he’s got a stomach of steel so he’ll be fine when he inevitably finds the dead. She’s pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke but neither of them laughed.

Her eyes slide over to Tony. Time to test him, she thinks. With a shrug and a casual tone, she says, “My boyfriend. He’s coming in from D.C., probably going to stay here if you don’t mind.”

He smiles, with too much teeth showing to be real. His crow’s lines are tight. “I’m not actually running a hotel, y’know. But sure, whatever, he can stay.”

“Thanks."

They stare at each other for a long moment.

Tony blurts, “Okay, but seriously, you’re Cap’s soulmate? What about the Cold War? Have you verified him yet?”

She rolls her eyes, biting her cheek to keep an exhausted smile off her face. The glare Yasha taught her makes for a much funnier reaction.

He backs off instantly. “Sorry, sorry, just gonna...go over there. To Bruce. Who won’t, y’know, bite my head off.”

She slaps a hand over her heart. “Tony, I would never bite your head off! I would eat you whole.” Then she pulls out the Smirk of Doom, as Sam calls it.

His eyes widen comically, and he doesn’t even respond before he turns tail and runs to Bruce.

It’s a good thing he’s scared of her. Big tough guys being terrified of her is always amusing, and she has a feeling she needs it. Sam’s panicking and she also has to introduce him to Steve without it turning into a pissing contest.

God help her.

* * *

Sam arrives in time for dinner, but he’s not hungry.

There’s not enough clear street several blocks leading further into Manhattan, so he has to leave his car on the side of the road beside a building that doesn’t look too unstable. He calls Natasha, asking, “Where are you?” as soon as she answers.

She snarks, “Hello to you too.”

He takes a measured breath. There’s no time for jokes. Doesn’t she get that? “Natasha. Just tell me where you are.”

“Stark Tower, fifty third floor,” she replies dutifully, a small sigh accompanying her words. “I’m going to meet you in the lobby, though, so don’t worry about getting upstairs. The security here is really strict, and you aren’t cleared upstairs yet.”

“I know you worked there a few years ago, but does clearance stay with you even after you leave?” He starts trudging towards the Tower, backpack on securely. The ride has calmed him some, but the bad feelings from earlier are still clinging to him.

“I don’t know, let me ask.” She puts her hand over the phone, talks to someone he can’t hear. “Tony says no but extenuating circumstances and all.”

“Hmm. Why are you in the Tower, anyways?”

She clears her throat, audibly bites her lip. “Have you been watching the news since the invasion?”

Technically, yes. “Not really,” he hedges. “I kinda dissociated for a while there.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” She asks immediately. His stomach twists both at the mention of food and the anxiety the words bring. He knows he should eat but he’s just not hungry.

“I dunno,” he admits. He had breakfast the morning before the invasion, and he ate a bowl of cereal yesterday.

She makes the noise she makes when she’s frustrated. “Hold on a sec, okay? I want to be alone before I respond to that.”

“Sure.” He keeps walking, thankful for once that he went through Superman School. It’s made walking or jogging with lots of weight a walk in the park.

As for Nat, he knows what’s coming, mostly because they’ve had this conversation before. That prior experience makes it easier.

There are some muffled noises on her side of the line, a door closing and someone sitting on sheets. “Okay, I’m alone now.” She breathes out heavily, bracing herself. “Sam, we’ve talked about this before. You cannot stop eating when you feel depressed. And when I say I’m fine, I’m fine. I know my limits and if I’m not doing okay I will tell you.”

“I know.” He does, really, because his mental health issues cause him to do things like this all the time. It sucks but nothing helps. When he feels depressed or anxious or has a panic attack, he turns completely irrational. “‘M sorry, Nat, I can’t help it.”

“I know,” she says tenderly. “Anyway, you should know now before you get here. I’m the Black Widow, that’s why I have clearance.”

He freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, apologizing under his breath to the people who have to walk around him. He has to take a measured breath again, roll his shoulders. “Okay,” he says after a moment, faux-calm. “Any more surprises?”

“I met Steve.”

“Steve who?” He keeps walking, sticking closer to the road as the buildings became more and more torn apart. He's feeling a little light-headed, and the dust certainly isn't helping.

“Steve Rogers.” He can practically see her quirking her eyebrow.

“You’re kidding, right?” She has to be kidding.

She clicks her tongue softly. “Nope. He’s smaller in real life than you’d expect.” Her attempt at lightening the mood doesn’t hit the mark. She’s so good at darts you’d think it would, but not this time.

“Huh. Well. I guess I’ll -- um, I’ll be there soon.” He doesn’t want to think about Steve Rogers and what it means that he’s alive. His anxiety tells him that he’s going to lose Nat no matter what happens. He hangs up before she can answer.

Easiest way to do this is to do it quick, after all.

* * *

Steve finally has to give up and go back inside. It’s hot, and he’s sweating through his obscenely tight suit. Going inside means facing Ms. Romanov, though. He’ll take rubble and casualties over that conversation any day.

It’s just so hot and there’s dust coating every inch of him, inside and out, so he has to give up the ghost.

He enters the Tower as slow as he dares, exhausted but trying to avoid the people who want to ask questions. Dr. Banner called them reporters, Stark called them paparazzi. He doesn’t know what to call them, just that he wants to avoid them at all costs. Somehow, with the bright colors of his suit making him a target, he manages to get past them.

Ms. Romanov is there, by the front desk, wearing a spare pair of what Stark said are sweatpants and a tee-shirt. The shirt is white and vaguely see through. He has to avert his eyes away from where it clings.

He clears his throat, “Ms. Romanov,” and they share a nod. Her eyes are unreadable, for all her body is relaxed. It makes him uncomfortable; everything does these days but this specifically. Here his soulmate is, completely removed from him, like they exist in two different worlds. He read her file, saw that she wasn’t that different from him (older than she seems, experimented on, a super soldier in her own right), but that doesn’t make it any easier to talk to her. Plus the file had said she was in a relationship. He assumes it’s Barton, but he doesn’t really know.

He stares ahead and goes to the elevators. The doors shut just as a black man with a backpack walks into the lobby and heads straight for Ms. Romanov.

* * *

Sam knows that Nat doesn’t always want him touching her. They’ve talked about their respective boundaries a lot. He asks before touching her when it seems like she’s even a little hesitant.

This time, she opens her arms wide. He bodily steps into her space, arms wrapping around her immediately.

She ducks her head into the crook of his neck, hands sliding under the backpack to rest on the middle of his back. He wastes no time in lifting her; her legs wrap around his waist and tighten as he spins them around.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi Sam.” Her words are muffled by his skin. “Before you say anything else, I want to reiterate that I am fine.”

He pulls away long enough to look at the small cuts on her face, glances down to see her ankle’s wrapped in a bandage. He feels around her ribs; they feel fine, too. Nothing broken, she’s breathing easy.

She waits out his search, resting her arms on his and setting her hands on his shoulders. The feeling of her touching him grounds him as it always does, and the way she’s looking at him makes all the bad feelings start to trickle away. A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Riley says, _she’s so in love with you dude_ . Sam replies, _yeah I know_.

“I believe you.”

“Good.” She surges up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. They kiss for only a moment, chaste and soft. Then she's pulling away and he's pulling her into another hug. He's still high on adrenaline, but here in her arms, he finally feels a little calm.

* * *

Getting the clearance to come upstairs is long and boring but at least Nat is here with him. Apparently there’s an AI in the Tower, named Jarvis (Nat corrects him and says its name is JARVIS, all caps), who she argues with. His girlfriend is really good at defending his honor.

And also apparently, the world, but he’s trying not to think too hard about that just yet. Getting upstairs and dealing with her somehow meeting Steve seems a little more important right now.

(Though yeah, he’s freaking out. His girlfriend is an alien-fighting badass superhero. He’d never expected her job to be a superhero -- his ideas had been government agent, a reserve spec-op soldier, something dangerous and secretive but not alien-fighting badass superhero dangerous and secretive. His brain can’t stop thinking about the fact that she got hurt, that it couldn’t been so much worse, that the next time something happens, she’ll be in the middle of the fray. It’s hard to think about but harder to stop reminding himself all the scary things that could happen.)

JARVIS says something about asking “Sir” and quiets down. Natasha sighs and rubs at her temples. “Goddamn Stark,” she mutters.

He pokes at her side, grinning when she chops at his hand and backs up two steps. Her presence is calming him enough that he can be playful, thank god. And after they said their hi’s and love you’s, she gave him a few granola bars with chocolate, so he’s feeling less lightheaded now. Somehow, she always knows exactly what to do.

“What,” she snaps, fiery anger at being tickled in her eyes.

“Tell me about Steve.”

Her eyebrow quirks up; he copies her, challenging. They play this game a lot. “He didn’t die in the plane crash, he was frozen. Alive.” She says it very casually, grabbing his hand and rubbing her thumb on his wrist. “They found him not too long ago, and he was asked to help us fight the aliens. He said yes. We met, we fought together, you know the story. That’s about all there is to say about it, really.”

Mimicking her tone, he asks, “And how is he doing with the whole soulmate thing?”

She shrugs. “He hasn’t said anything. He came in just before you did, and didn’t ask to talk or anything.”

“Nervous?”

“Who? Me or him?”

Sam had meant it as a suggestion as to why Steve hadn’t asked, but…. “Both.”

She tilts her head and very pointedly doesn’t look at him. “I don’t know if he’s nervous or not. He’s pretty moody. Not hard to read, but...moody. As for me…? I’m not nervous.”

He rubs his free hand down her arm, comforting her as best as he can when she gets like this. Distant and closed off and prone to lying. Not his favorite mood of hers but he knows how to handle it. “Are you sure? Because I think you’re a little nervous. Anyone would be.”

“I’m not anyone,” she replies strongly.

“I know, baby, I wasn’t saying that you are.”

She scowls a tiny, cute scowl, and her arms cross. “You're not funny.”

“Not trying to be.”

“Hmm.” She squints at him. “Well, I'm positive I'm not nervous, so don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, sure.” He rolls his eyes. “You know it's okay to be nervous about meeting your soulmate, right? You're in a committed relationship and he's larger than life superhero. That's a lot.”

“I already told you, he's smaller than I expected.”

He throws his head back and pretends to beg god for patience. She huffs out a laugh at him.

“Not the point, babe, not the point.”

* * *

Sam gets directed to her bed before he meets any of the Avengers. It's a small twin bed with plain white sheets and only one pillow. Considering the Tower belongs to a billionaire, Sam had expected more than this. But whatever, they can make it work. He sets his bag down by the bed, trusting it won't get stolen. (Does he expect someone nosy to rifle through it? Yeah, kinda. Natasha has been know to do things like that.)

Natasha sits on the bed, watches as he walks the length of the room.

It used to be an office; it's too small to be a bedroom. There's a small crack in the corner of the ceiling, closest to the part of the Tower that a quick Google search informed him was the center of the fighting. He frowns at it, not liking the looks of it -- how stable can the Tower be if there’s cracks like that? -- but unable to do anything.

Nat stretches out on the bed, putting her hands under her head and closing her eyes. “There's two exits -- the door and the vent. Three of you count the windows but they're pretty hard to break through.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Tony got thrown through one not too long ago.”

“Tony as in Tony Stark.” That shouldn't be as weird as it is.

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’. “Once things are better down in the streets, he's planning on fixing up the whole Tower. He didn't say so, but it's so obvious he wants us all to stay here.”

Sam tilts his head at that, turning to look at her. “Why? Y’all only fought together the once.”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. What goes on in his brain is beyond me.”

“You said downstairs that you're a spy. Aren't spies supposed to know everything?” he teases.

She opens one eye to peer at him. “I do know everything. I can tell you right now that whatever's going on in his mind, it's crazy and nonsensical but ultimately not completely stupid.”

“Hmm.”

She closes her eye again. “Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know the man well enough to answer that.” He does, however, know that what he’s seen so far isn’t very impressive.

“He’s going to interrogate you,” she says like it’s normal to be interrogated by your girlfriend’s coworkers -- if Tony Stark could even be called that. “You can probably ask him a few questions then.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see how that would be a great time to ask him questions.” He sits next to Nat, setting one hand on either side of her and twisting his upper body to lean over her. “You ready to go out there?”

She blinks her eyes open, staring at him with a small smile. “We can just stay in here until we need to get something to eat. I don’t mind braving the hallway to feed us.”

“I know you don’t, but we gotta deal with Steve sooner or later, and sooner sounds like the responsible thing to do.”

She groans. “Responsible.”

Sam can’t help but laugh at the way she says it, like it’s a curse word. “C’mon, Nat, let’s do it.”

“Fine. But first, kiss for good luck.” She pulls him down by his shirt and they kiss again, short and languid.

“Good luck with Steve,” he breathes out when they pull apart.

“That was for you and Tony, pumpkin.” Nat then somehow twists out from under him, graceful like a cat. God, he should’ve guessed she’s a spy when they first met. No one is naturally that graceful, at least not that he’d experienced.

“‘Pumpkin’?” He groans, a smile uncontrollably pulling at his lips.

“Yes, dear?” She innocently bats her eyelids at him.

Sam scoffs, shaking his head and standing. He’s still a little lightheaded, but he feels stable quickly. Nat notices, of course she does, and sets a hand on his back. “Come on, let’s go.”

They step out into the hallway, and he barely has time to look around before someone’s shouting, “Sam!”

When he looks, he sees a white guy coming towards them, wearing, of all things, pajama pants with little Iron Mans on them and a crop top. The shirt is tight but the pants are too big. To make matters worse, the crop top is a gross shade of what can only be called Puke Green. Sam has to fight to keep a friendly smile on his face.

Natasha clicks her tongue fondly. “Clint, what the fuck are you wearing.” She doesn’t look phased at all, which Sam is insanely jealous of. He wants that poker face, dammit.

“Oh, this is Clint?” _This is Clint? Okay_ , he thinks. Apparently being with a spy means lots of weird shit is coming his way and he’s just gotta deal with it somehow. He can do that. Hopefully.

“Yep! And I dunno why you’re asking, Nat, ‘cause you know I don’t have an explanation for this.” He waves a hand at himself. “Anyway, s’real good to meet ya, Sam.”

“You too,” he says sincerely even though it’s partially a lie. Fine, at least half a lie, but this is weird, okay? Natasha is a spy-superhero hybrid and Clint, who he’s had normal conversations with, is wearing _that_. Sam’s just trying to roll with the punches here.

Clint nods his head a little manically. “I was just about to get some food from upstairs, Tony said it should be fine, unless there’s, like, dust all over it. I don’t know about you guys, though, ‘cause even if there is dust all over it, I’mma eat it. I’ve had worse shit before.”

Natasha gives Clint a very unimpressed look. That look affects Sam more than it probably should, but Clint just matches it with a pout. Sam’s eyes dart between them a few times, unsure who to look at.

“Sam and I were about to get food that won’t kill us. Why don’t you come with?” Her tone is calm, her posture relaxed.

“Yeah, c’mon man. I’m pretty sure even MRE’s taste better than drywall.” In reality, nothing tastes worse than MREs, but that’s not what Clint needs to hear right now.

Clint shudders. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I guess I’ll go with you.” Like it’s a hardship, Clint trudges behind them to the small communal area the hallway spills into. All the while, he’s talking. “Actually, there was a girl on My Strange Addiction that ate drywall. She thought it was good. Maybe I would, too, you guys don’t know.”

“Have you ever had drywall?” he asks just to be nice. Nat smirks at him when Clint isn’t looking her way.

Clint has to think about it, actually putting his hand on his chin and stroking what few hairs were growing. Eventually, he says, “No. I don’t think so, no.”

“You don’t know if you’ve ever eaten drywall.” He deadpans.

Clint shrugs helplessly, “I dunno what to tell you man.”

 _Oh god_ , Sam thinks, he’s gonna have to get used to weird shit like this asap, isn’t he?

* * *

By some miracle, Tony is no longer in the communal area. Bruce has left, too, and Steve is nowhere to be found. Natasha walks ahead of them as Clint and Sam talk.

Clint, she wants to point out, is apparently perfectly fine wearing Tony’s disgusting old clothes. When Tony had pulled out a crate full of stuff, he’d thrown clothes at them without looking; hence why she’s wearing his old MIT sweatpants and a Mötley Crüe t-shirt. It’s so old and threadbare, she can almost see her sports bra through the shirt. Her thoughts turn to Steve as she presses the up button for the elevator. He’d looked, for only a moment. His eyes had flicked down and then back up immediately.

Sam had looked, too. Making sure she was okay was more important to him in that moment, though.

The elevator dings, and the doors open. She steps in, Sam and Clint moving in behind her. Sam’s arm wraps around her waist without a thought; Clint watches them like the bird he’s named after. She raises an eyebrow at him -- _so?_

He tips his chin down, still going on about My Strange Addiction -- _I like him._

The corners of her lips tuck up. _Me too._

It takes no time at all to get upstairs. The floor they step out on is a civil floor, with a kitchen. The structure is damaged, worse than in the room she and Sam are staying in, but any food should be safe. There doesn’t seem to be any dust in the kitchen.

Clint high tails it there, shouting, “What are we eating?”

Sam rolls his eyes at her, muttering, “Is he always like this?”

She pats his chest comfortingly. “He’s on some sort of medication that Tony had lying around.” Which would explain his behavior and make Sam more understanding but she didn’t want to give her boyfriend false hope. “Unfortunately, medication or no medication, he’s always like this.”

Sam shakes his head, “Damn.”

Natasha laughs as he follows after Clint. She walks half a step behind him sedately, fingers clutching his palm. They share a smile over his shoulder. The gap in his teeth makes her heart jump in a way that is wholly embarrassing and will never be mentioned to anyone ever.

Clint’s already started on sandwiches when they get there. “PB&J or something else? We got avo-cad _ooooo_ ,” he sings.

Sam moves closer to see the options -- ham, cheese, mustard, mayo, lettuce, and yes, avocado. “I’ll have PB&J.”

“I’ll take something else, without mayo.” Natasha hates mayo and the only times she’ll ever eat it is when she’s forced to for a mission. Thankfully, that has yet to happen.

Things happen pretty quick after that. Clint pulls Sam into a conversation, prolonging the preparation of food. He won’t let either of them help, and gives the stink eye when she stares at him without blinking -- _hurry up_.

 _No,_ his stink eyes say. _I’m busy trying to get information out of Sam._

If she had any less control, she would throw her arms in the air out of pure annoyance. But she does have control, so she settles for a quick glare. He scrunches up his face mockingly.

It takes forever for Clint to finish making the sandwiches (in this case, forever is fifteen minutes). When he finally hands the plates over to her and Sam, who have sat down at a breakfast bar, conversation slows.

Watching Sam’s eyebrows rise higher and higher is Natasha’s new form of entertainment.

Clint takes big bites, and doesn’t seem to care where his fingers are as long as he’s eating. It makes a mess, for sure, but that’s not what Sam is incredulous about. He winces every time Clint’s teeth get too close to his fingers.

She would find it funnier if her stomach wasn't in knots just thinking about confronting Steve. She takes a bite to distract herself. Steve is...he’ll be dealt with later, after they eat. After she makes sure Sam won’t pass out. Taking care of Sam comes first, then talking to Steve.

“Man, you’re gonna make yourself throw up if you eat any faster.”

Clint shrugs. “Dun’ care,” he mumbles.

Sam, who is a normal guy from a normal family, has manners. Natasha knows this well because sometimes she doesn’t and he takes it upon himself to help her get them right. Clint is an ex-carnie with absolutely no manners to be spoken of. Sam’s eyebrows furrow with concentration; she can see the effort he’s making not to say something. He peeks at her from the corner of his eyes -- _really?_

She quirks an eyebrow -- _yes, really._

 _Dammit_ \-- he frowns and bites into his sandwich. Jelly spills over his fingers. He quickly licks it off; Natasha has to look away. Looking away means out the windows again.

The sun is shining, no clouds in the sky. It feels wrong; there are still so many people out there, missing and hurt and dead. An internal struggle is brewing, too.

Natasha had been made to never fall in love. She was made to be emotionless. Her soulmate had been a threat to her, someone she was trained to kill. No one had ever found her Name, and so, she'd never lost it like the other girls she was trained with. She’d given up on falling in love or being with her soulmate a very long time ago.

But now here she is with both -- a man she loves and her soulmate. She has no idea what she’s supposed to do here, and no idea who to ask. She can’t ask Steve for obvious reasons. Tony and Clint are both out, also for obvious reasons. Bruce is...she's not going to ask Bruce. That leaves two people -- Fury and Sam.

She doesn't want Fury on this. He's a good ally but this is too personal for their relationship. And Sam? He's prone to self-sacrifice. She's not going to ask his opinion; she already knows it. He wants her to stay with him but wants her to have what he's always desperately wanted -- a soulmate. She takes a hearty bite of her sandwich, mentally preparing herself to think it all out.

Steve is a great guy, literally the peak human being. He’s also lonely and depressed -- it doesn’t take long to realize that. She feels for him; no one deserves what’s happened to him. The problem is, she doesn’t know what he wants. A friend? A lover? He might be stuck on Peggy Carter still, or the idea of being married to your ‘mate the second you meet them. She has to figure out what he wants before starting any kind of relationship with him.

Then there’s Sam, the guy she’s in love with. He’s adjusting. He can live without her, only for a little while, and when she comes back, he acts like they didn't see each other for years. They’ve bonded. Nat has come to terms with the fact that she loves him. He needs her as much as she needs him and she can’t -- she _won’t_ \-- just give that up for Steve Rogers.

No matter how good looking he is, Sam comes first.

* * *

When Natasha steps off the elevator, she comes face to chest with Steve. He looks freshly showered, his hair wet and dripping. However, he’s still in his Captain America suit.

“Why’re you still wearing that?” Clint asks without missing a beat. He steps around Steve and doesn’t even wait for a response, just heads straight to where Tony is now sitting on the floor, texting someone rapidly. “You got _Words With Friends_?”

“We aren’t friends,” Tony says, not looking up from his screen.

“Come on, really? Tony -- can I call you Tony?”

“No.”

“Aww, Stark, c’mon.”

“No."

Natasha bites her cheek and turns her attention away from her partner. Steve is still looking their way when she turns back. Sam is touching her again, a hand on the small of her back that’s to both of their benefits (though he no doubt thinks it’s for hers). She gets support and he knows she’s doing okay.

“Steve,” she gently murmurs. “We need to talk.”

The words make his shoulders tighten up. He glances between Sam and her, clenches his jaw. “I need to be on the street, Ms. Romanov.”

“This is an important talk,” she insists.

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, eyes closed, and steps around them to the elevator.

Natasha spins, grabbing him by the elbow. He jerks around, tense but letting her keep a hold on him. “Steve, you’ve been out there all day, yesterday and today. It’ll be okay if you take a moment to yourself. Tony’s got an insane amount of workers down there as it is.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. The air around them feels charged, different to the way it does around Sam, but not in a bad way.

“Okay,” he concedes after a moment. “Where…?”

“Our room is fine,” Sam offers. “If you’re comfortable with that.”

Tony calls, “God, if you guys take any longer, I’ll die of old age before Cap punches his V card!”

An irritated blush spreads on Steve’s cheeks. He doesn’t say anything though, she assumes because he knows it’s an insult but doesn’t know what it means beyond that.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, hunching into himself and hurrying down the hall.

“Hey, can I borrow the beau for a sec?” Tony asks, watching Steve’s ass as he moves. His eyes flick to Sam, giving him a wary up-down. “I gotta give him the spiel.”

“Sorry, no. He’s needed for this conversation.” She tucks an arm around his back, pressing her side against his. His crossed arms fall out of the self-hug position to give her more space.

Tony frowns, flapping a hand at them. Clint scoots back so he won’t get hit. “But the spiel -- “

“Is very simple and I can have JARVIS repeat it back to him. Okay? Okay. Come on, Sam.” She clasps his hand in hers and leads him down the hall, where Steve is waiting by her door.

“What happened to pumpkin?” he teases.

“Tony thinks I’m emotionless and scary, I’d like to keep it that way. Pumpkin makes me sound soft.”

He pokes her side under her ribs. “You _are_ soft.”

“That’s all muscle and you know it.”

He hums like he’s agreeing just to appease her; she pushes him just enough he tilts back. She knows how much he hates tripping and losing his balance, and she also knows just how strong she is. She knows better than to push too hard.

Steve, she notices, watches them closely. She can’t tell what he’s thinking, but hunger is in his eyes. Hunger and desperation.

He lets her and Sam enter before him. When Sam closes the door, Steve fidgets uncomfortably. There’s nowhere to sit but the bed; he sits on the floor in the corner with the crack. He sits cross legged awkwardly, ungracefully. Natasha and Sam can’t look away. He’s like a newborn deer, unsure how much leg he’s got to work with and further unsure where to put it.

In total contrast, Sam flops onto the bed like he owns it. His shirt rides up with the movement, abdomen showing. Though he hastily tucks it back into his pants, Steve notices. Interestingly, he shifts a little, sets his hands in his lap. Hmm. She tucks that away for another time.

“So,” Natasha starts after taking a seat by Sam’s hip. He leans up on one elbow, curving around her slightly. His smile is easy and his body relaxed; Natasha can tell it’s fabricated but she won’t bring it up. “You’re my soulmate.”

He slumps against the wall, rubs at his face. “You have my Name on you? I didn’t see it.”

“You can’t, not unless you’re looking. It’s hidden by my hair.” She gestures at him, “I know my Name is on you, too.”

Staring at her unreadably, Steve swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

It leads to another staring contest. Natasha refuses to lose, and Steve is used to hurry up and wait. Sam, however, isn’t interested in waiting for one of them to look away.

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet. I’m Sam Wilson.”

Steve instantly jerks around to look at Sam. Blue eyes widen, start to water almost imperceptibly. “Sam Wilson,” he repeats dumbly.

Natasha rests her hand on Sam’s back, rubbing slow circles. Of course Steve knows that name. Of course this is going to be difficult. He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

He straightens his back unconsciously. “Is your Name...um, is it -- “

Sam’s face turns to stone. Natasha can practically hear his heart breaking in two. “Bucky Barnes? Yeah, it is.”

He’s much more casual than he would have been a year ago. Bucky and Steve have weighed heavily on their minds since they first met, and of course, her getting Steve but him not getting Bucky hurts. He’s grown a lot in the past year, enough that he can say Bucky’s name without breaking down. His hand pulls at her wrist and slides down to clutch at her palm and fingers.

Steve looks up at the ceiling, not at all subtly trying to hide tears. His mouth quivers, and Sam’s fingers tighten. Eventually, Steve says to the ceiling, “Hi, Sam. I’m Steve.”

* * *

The next few days are fucking difficult. Sam can’t put it in any truer words. They’re painful, sad, anxiety-ridden days.

New York is so busy, even with Midtown leveled. The constant action, constant moving of all the workers, makes him anxious. Then there’s Steve, who can’t look at him without tearing up but wants to ask him millions of questions. Steve doesn’t actually ask him much of anything, but Sam can see that Steve desperately wants to.

Clint and Tony stress him out for different reasons, mainly the little fact that they’re both trying to find out everything they can about him. He gets cornered before he can go find something to eat, every damn time. Getting stuck on the elevator with Tony Stark has come to mean Tony pressing the hold button just to ask him about, of all things, his favorite flavor of toothpaste and what threadcount he likes.

It’s annoying, is what it is. Creepy is also a word he’d use.

Sam doesn’t see much of Bruce, possibly because Bruce is avoiding him. Sam likes Bruce.

And of course, Natasha. They see each other every night, have to tuck up against each other in the tiny bed. She goes and helps on the street, but not for nearly as long as Steve. “It’s pretty much a matter of getting everything cleaned up now,” she tells him on his second night there. “There aren’t any missing people, we know that much.”

She also tells him that she’s been talking to Steve, trying to see what he wants from her, what kind of compromise they might be able to come to. Apparently, he’s brushed off every overture.

Sam knows he’s in the way. He’s self aware enough to know that he is why Steve is staying distant, not even attempting friendship. Steve’s coming fresh off the death of a lot of people in his life, and now he’s got his soulmate and his dead best friend’s soulmate following right after an alien invasion he fought against. It’s a lot all at once.

As much as Sam knows he should let Steve and Natasha do their thing, he doesn’t want to. It’s giving him nightmares, which is just ridiculous. His mind is focused on the fact that he’s coming between soulmates and won’t let it go. So between his days watching recaps of the invasion and avoiding Tony, he’s also dealing with nightmares about Bucky, Riley, Nat, and Steve.

Nat notices all this, of course. She notices everything -- which makes a lot more sense now that he knows what her job is.

Bright and early day four of Sam being in the Tower, she says, “Baby, can you go get some cotton balls? I want to redo my nails.”

He rolls out of bed with a grumble. He rights his pajama pants and pats down his hair. It’s getting longer and fluffier. He might be due for a cut when they go back home. “Where’re they?”

“The bathroom. Thank you.” She flashes her darling smile at him.

He should be suspicious. She rarely calls him baby, and that smile wasn’t exactly her genuine one. But he’s barely awake, so it doesn’t register.

Shuffling down the hallway, he takes note that no one else seems to be up yet. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, farthest from the elevators you can get on the floor. He steps in, reaching for the doors to the cabinet --

The door shuts behind him, clicking distinctly. All the hair on Sam’s body rises the second he hears the click. He spins around, and sure enough, the damn door is locked. He steps back against the sink, breathing deeply. _This is fine_ , he tells himself. _I am fine._

There’s a knock, down the hall. Nat’s voice says, “Steve?” A door opens; a rough voice says something just a little too low for Sam to hear. “Sam got himself locked in the bathroom somehow and he needs help. I tried but it didn’t work.”

Steve’s voice, rough and gravelly, says through a yawn, “Okay.”

Oh, Nat is devious. The door opens fine, without any super strength needed. Steve smiles at him once they meet eyes, just a small little thing that barely counts. Then Natasha is pushing Steve into the bathroom and closing the damn door again.

Steve stumbles, falling onto Sam’s chest and pressing Sam more against the sink. Sam steadies the bigger man with hands on his hips.

Steve blinks down at him, then looks away immediately, blushing high on his cheeks. He straightens up, standing against the door to give Sam some room. “Ms. Romanov said….”

“You can call her Natasha, you know. Or Nat. She likes being called Princess, on occasion.” He shrugs, trying to keep calm. Enclosed space plus a big dude does not equal any sort of relaxation. “Anyway, this is her trying to get us to talk, I’m guessing. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Steve meets his eyes again. “Why would she want us to talk?”

“I’m her boyfriend, you’re her soulmate. Plus the whole,” he swallows, waves a hand around and almost accidentally touching Steve’s chest, “Bucky thing.”

Steve sighs and his whole body loses tension. Sam notices, all at once, that Steve is wearing a shirt that says, _Haters To The Left_. It’s about two sizes too small, if he had to guess.

“Yeah. Bucky.”

“Do you wanna talk about him or Nat? I have a feeling she won’t let us out until we talk about something.”

“I -- I don’t want to talk about either of them.” Which is very clearly him saying, _you choose so I don’t have to._

Easy enough. “We need to talk about Natasha, Steve. What do you want here? A friendship? Do you want us to break up?”

Steve’s eyebrows raise; his hands come up, palms facing Sam. “No! No, god, no, that’s not -- “

“Then what -- “

Steve groans, out of nowhere. His hands run through his hair, pushing it even more out of place than it had been before. “Sam, I don’t want anything. I don’t want to come between you and I don’t want to be with her. That’s the last thing I want, to break you up. _I don’t want anything_ ,” he repeats, breathing coming faster with every word, “I was -- I can’t -- “

His huge chest starts heaving. Panic strikes Sam, quick and shocking. He reaches across the small space and sets his hands on Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close again. “Breathe, Steve. In and out, nice and easy. We don’t have to talk if you aren’t ready. You’ve already said enough. It’s all -- “

Steve gasps against Sam’s collarbone, “I just lost Bucky. I don’t want to -- I can’t be with Natasha. I can’t.”

Sam ignores his pounding heart and rubs his hand up and down Steve’s spine. “Yeah, man, okay. You don’t have to. Trust me, I’m all good with not having to share.”

Steve stutters out a laugh.

Sam sets his chin on Steve’s big shoulder and waits for him to calm down.

Eventually, Steve’s breathing normally, pressed chest to chest with Sam. It’s an interesting feeling, to say the least. Sam tells himself firmly, _stop it. He’s grieving, and you have a girlfriend_ . _This is most awkward crush you can have, Sam._

“So.” Steve tenses at the sound of Sam’s voice; he hates himself for thinking this, but Steve’s muscles feel great against him. A flash of muscles sliding against his own assaults him; _okay Sam stop it now. You can just stop any time now._ “You and Bucky, huh.”

“We weren’t queers,” Steve defends instantly, pulling away again. _Aww shit,_ he thinks.

“It’s okay if you were. It’s legal now.” At the face Steve makes, Sam runs a hand down his own. Damn, did no one tell this guy anything? “Seriously. I’ve had boyfriends and girlfriends. Totally legal now, at least here in New York.”

“Stark said you live in D.C.”

“I do, but I know where I can get married to a guy if I want to.”

“Do you...want to?”

Sam shrugs, hops up against the counter. It’s an effort not to fall into the sink but he’s got it. His arms wrap around his middle in a hug. Helps with anxiety, supposedly.

“Not currently. If Nat and I ever break up, and I meet a guy I really like, then probably yeah. But for right now, I’m hooked on Nat.”

Steve looks away. “Does she _want_ something with me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I also didn’t think she’d lock me in a goddamn bathroom knowing I’m claustrophobic, so.”

Concern washes over Steve’s face. “Are you okay? I can break us out of here, I think. She might’ve had the AI thing lock the door.”

“We would have heard if she did. But if you could, please? I gotta get out of here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He turns to mess with the door handle. Sam stares at his ass, looks away, and finds the muscles of his back. Sam swallows and closes his eyes.

He hears the door open, and the fresh (fresher, at least) air has his lungs expanding more than before. Steve touches his knee; Sam jerks away instantly. “Sorry, man, jus’ -- “

“I get it. I shouldn’t have…. Anyway. Um. Maybe we should go talk to Natasha.”

Sam has to jump down and walk out before he can say, “Good idea.”

* * *

In the end, this is what’s decided:

Nat and Steve are going to try to be friends. Nat doesn’t want to leave Sam, no matter what mainstream media says -- every damn romcom showing the main character leaving their significant other for their soulmate -- and Steve isn’t ready to be in a relationship. Sam is perfectly fine with this, of course, because he’s not interested in breaking up with Nat, either. Plus, Steve is difficult to be around, for several reasons, the main one being Bucky.

Sam’s heart has grown hard in his lifetime from all the blows it's taken. When it comes to Bucky, though, his heart is weak. When he and Steve see each other, they see Bucky -- the best friend, the soulmate. It’s for the best, really, that he and Nat don’t stick around long.

* * *

The next two years of Sam’s life aren’t...strange, exactly, but definitely not normal.

For the most part, he and Nat go back to their routine. Nat goes on TV, sometimes. Usually he can’t get off work, so he watches it live and cheers her on. Liho and Figaro curl up with him and meow alongside his cheers. Every vet at the VA knows about his girlfriend the superhero

One thing that does change is their relationship.

It happens one night after they’ve been in bed for a while. Nat had returned home that morning from a weekend in New York, and they’d been happily stuck to each other like glue all day. That stays true for them in bed -- he’s the big spoon tonight, her back to his chest. He plays with her fingers, and she lets him. Once upon a time, this kind of intimacy had been something she shied away from, hadn’t wanted. But as time went on, she became more comfortable, and now he gets this easy touching.

He rubs his thumb up and down the inside of her left ring finger. “Would you ever want to get married?”

She tenses, a minuscule tightening of her muscles. It’s only for a second -- she relaxes against him almost as soon as she tenses. “Sam….”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m just asking if you’ve ever thought about it.” He lets go of her finger, curls his pinky around hers.

“Can we stay like this?”

“Sure.” He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder.

To the wall, Nat says, “You know what my life was like growing up. I was a living weapon. Not meant to have a future as anything but an assassin. I spent a lot of my life thinking that that was all I would be, all I would get. My idea of romance was seducing a target. After Clint brought me here, I found out my soulmate is Captain America, the greatest man to ever live. And for a while, I was focused on being good. I didn’t think I would ever be in love with anyone, even though I had the opportunity to. Then I met you. I’m not sure what I want, but I know that I love you. So I will...consider it. For you.”

His heart jumps, and in seconds, she’s on her back with him hugging her, chest to chest. Their lips press together, but he’s smiling too wide for it to be any good. He says things like “my future fiance” a few more times that night but they don’t talk about it again until a few weeks later.

Nat once again is coming home from New York, but from a longer trip, this time. She gets in around noon, just in time for Sam’s lunch break.

Her knuckles rap on the doorway to his office; he jumps at the noise, then nearly jumps out of his seat to get to her. Damn desk in his way.

They hug for a while; three weeks only talking on the phone is a long time, entirely too long to go without hugging each other. Nat holds on tightly, burying her nose in his neck. Her cold nose, of course. There’s not much about her that he begrudges, but her being cold all the time is one. He’s had enough cold in his life, enough for the both of them and probably Steve, too.

Sam pulls back first, leading her to his desk. She sits on the edge of it in between his legs, letting her pumps slide off at the heel. He tucks his hands behind her knees; the smirk she gives him is way too wicked for this time of day.

“How was New York?”

Nat shrugs, fiddling with his favorite pen. “It was fine. Steve and I went out to this cafe he’d been wanting to try. He made me get a hazelnut latte.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was better than I expected it would be. Next time you go up, you should try it.”

“Sure.”

She tilts her chin up, looking down at him thoughtfully. “I was thinking….”

“Oh boy, that can’t mean anything good. What poor idiot is on your shit list now?”

She laughs throatily, throwing her head back the tiniest bit. His heart does that stupid little skip again; he can’t help but smile at her. “I wasn’t thinking about that, but now that you mention it, Tony is still at number one. I’ll tell you what he did this time later,” she shakes her head.

“What were you thinking about, then?” He makes a circle on her thigh with his thumb. She gently kicks him at him; his smile turns shit-eating.

“I want to get married.”

All thoughts of teasing her leave his mind instantly, all brain functions pausing. _I want to get married_ , that’s what she just said.

“Real-- seriously? Like, really?”

She has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Her hand comes up to hold his cheek affectionately. He nuzzles his nose at her pulse. “Yes, Sam, really.”

“When?”

“I was thinking November, after Halloween, before my birthday.”

“Sounds great.” He stands, pulling her closer to the edge of the table by her hips. Her legs naturally find themselves curling around his. “Oh _man_ , I love you.”

Nat responds by kissing him; they’re smiling too hard for it to be any good, but it must be the best kiss of Sam’s entire life.

* * *

Their wedding is small, with only the Avengers (and Avengers adjacents), Sam’s family and a few friends in attendance. Sam wears his Air Force blues and Natasha wears a long, lacy dress. She doesn’t wear much white; he doesn’t know why, when she looks this good in it. She looks so good, so beautiful, it brings tears to his eyes. God, this is his wife. Or, well, almost-wife. How’d he get so lucky?

Nick Fury walks Nat down a small aisle, and makes a speech later on. It’s not a particularly long speech, but judging by the way Nat hugs him after, it’s perfect. Steve attends as a man of honor.

Sam spends the entire event staring at Nat shamelessly. She’s so beautiful. She can kick his ass and outsmart him and she’s way out of his league, but here she is, marrying him anyway. It’s safe to say he’s so in love it causes cavities. (To be fair, Gideon is stuffing his face with cake, so it’s probably not just them being sickeningly sweet.)

Their first dance is sweet, slow and filled with whispered words. Nat tells him that she never imagined this for herself, that she’s overjoyed that it’s him. She tells him that she’s the luckiest woman in the whole world.

Sam hugs her closer and tells her in certain words that he thought he’d never be happy again after losing Riley, but she changed that. Sam feels like everything bad in his life has washed away, if only for a little while.

* * *

That first year can be described by one word: domestic. If Sam wants to go in detail, he can say it’s lovely, because Nat is his _wife_. He can say it’s normal, because he still has bad days and their routine doesn’t change much. He can say different, because Steve comes to live not far from them and becomes a bigger part of their lives.

The only difference between the first and second year is Steve.

* * *

Steve Rogers is an interesting topic around their house. Sam is getting better at being able to talk to him and not feel either a, insanely depressed, b, insanely jealous, or c, insanely creepy. Sam can’t, for the life of him, stop feeling attracted to the guy. It’s kind of a problem, but he’s working through it.

Beyond that, Nat is getting closer to him as time goes on. Fury’s partnered them up, and sends them on missions together frequently. Sam stays home in D.C., working and trying to get Tony and Clint to stop texting him weird memes. (Bruce is still avoiding him. Sam still likes Bruce.)

They’ve never fought about Steve -- mostly they argue about what’s for dinner and _keep your shaving stuff away from my makeup stuff_ and _why did you buy that, I know you aren’t about to put it there_ \-- and he doesn’t want to start doing it, either. It’s just...difficult. Seeing Nat and Steve together and being friendly and acting like all soulmates do, like they’re one person. (Everyone knows that it doesn’t work that way but when there’s proof right in front of you, what are you going to to say? It’s not true? Well, he’s looking right at them. It’s definitely true.)

* * *

One night, he and Nat go out to Steve’s place, ostensibly to show him the wonders of Star Trek.

They all settle in on Steve’s couch, feet up on the coffee table (Steve hates it but can’t deny that it’s more comfortable). Nat is the one who turns it on, sitting between Sam and Steve. She’s tucked up against his side, his arm around her shoulders. The couch is small enough that Steve is close but not touching on Nat’s other side.

Just before she presses play, Sam asks, “Are we ever gonna talk about what we want again or…?”

Nat looks up at him, her chin resting on his pec. Steve’s looking too, setting his beer bottle down on the table and bracing himself. Natasha seems open minded whereas Steve has already decided that this isn’t going to go well. “Have you changed your mind?”

Sam falters under the attention of two extremely attractive superheroes, but gets his feet under him quick enough that a normal person wouldn’t notice. These two do, of course, because Sam’s life is supremely unfair. “I -- yeah, actually. I kind of have.”

“Let’s talk then,” Steve says, leaning into the corner where the back and the arm meet. He doesn’t cross his arms but the cut of his shoulders is enough to tell Sam he’s feeling defensive.

Nat flattens her lips, looking just like the unamused emoji. She doesn’t pull away from Sam but it’s pretty clear that she doesn’t want to be forced to choose between them.

Luckily for her, she might not have to.

See, Sam’s done a lot of thinking. Just because he’s helping people at the VA doesn’t mean he isn’t getting help himself. He’s talked with his therapist and he’s thought it out and he’s tried to see if maybe they might be interested in being together, all three of them. He’s asked Nat about poly relationships and if she’s attracted to Steve (they’re okay and yes). He’s asked Steve on their rare morning runs if he’s ever thought about being with more than one person at a time (yes). Once, he even asked JARVIS to watch Steve and see if Steve seemed attracted to him. JARVIS had said yes (along with millions of examples of why he thought so), which is why Sam says, “I had an idea about the three of us.”

“The three of us,” Nat and Steve repeat as one. Nat’s tone is much more knowing than Steve’s, who just sounds confused. Nat raises an eyebrow, asking him, _the three of us together?_

“Yeah,” he says, to both the spoken and silent questions. “Look, this might sound weird, but it could work. Nat, you know I’m attracted to you, and Steve, you’re hotter than -- “

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, “what are you suggesting? That we -- we get...together?”

“Yeah,” Sam repeats. “I’ve established I’m into both of you. I know you guys are into each other. Nat, you’re obviously into me, since you put a ring on it. And Steve, your looks aren’t exactly subtle.” The blush that flares up then is hugely endearing. Sam has to bite his lip to cheek his smile in check. “I think it could work.”

“It could,” Nat hums, looking at Steve over her shoulder. They talk for a few moments with their faces; Sam doesn’t feel left out per se but definitely jealous. When she turns back to Sam, the corners of her lips are curled up. She rests a hand on his chest. “We should talk about boundaries and questions we have.” Sam and Steve agree, so she continues, “I’ll start. I want to keep what I have with you, Sam. I don’t want to change anything between us specifically. I’m...interested in having Steve join our relationship. Steve?”

Steve purses his lips. “I’d...I’d like that too. I guess.”

“With both of us or just Nat here?” Sam’s prepared himself for this becoming a V relationship in theory, though he isn’t sure how well he’ll do in practice.

Steve gets out of answering by saying, “I don’t want to break you up by getting between you.”

“Getting between us won’t break us up,” Sam says, salacious grin in place. Nat smacks his chest; he laughs, throwing his head back. After a few seconds, he forces his smile away and turns his attentions back to Steve. “Seriously though, man, Nat and I are saying that we are both interested in you. If you want us both, then you can. If you want just Nat, we can find a way to deal with that. Depends on what you want.”

Steve looks Sam right in the eye, strong chin jutting out. “I want both of you.”

Natasha asks seriously, “Does that include in the bedroom?”

Steve blushes, looks at the coffee table where Sam and Nat are still resting their feet. “Yes.”

* * *

Sam and Natasha lead Steve to a table in the back of a dimly lit restaurant a week later, making conversation with the maître d'. Steve follows sedately, hands in pockets and trying to be cool. It’s not working, but they’re a lot brighter than him, catching attention with their shining smiles and flashing rings. No one is looking at him, not when they’re there.

The more time he spends with them, the more he’s convinced that maybe he shouldn’t get in a relationship with them.

It’s not like he’s never experienced this before. He and Bucky hadn’t been -- _couldn’t_ have been -- exclusive. They’d go on dates with girls and come home, fall into bed with each other. Bucky went steady with a few girls -- not for very long, just long enough so no one suspected anything. Plus, Brooklyn was full of queers back then, and married couples who had a friend live with them was the most “normal” thing you’d see there. So it’s not the relationship itself that’s putting him off, but Sam and Natasha.

He knows that they’ve only been together a few years, only married for a little over one, but they act like they’ve known each other their whole lives. It’s obvious to Steve that fate got it mixed up -- Sam and Natasha should be soulmates, and Bucky should’ve been his. It shouldn’t have been this way.

But, he has to remind himself, it did end up this way. And he has to deal with it. It’s in his best interest to accept it.

They get to the table without anyone noticing who he and Natasha are. Someone does call out to Sam, though all that happens is Sam waves and greets the man. Steve sits first, going to the corner that faces out against the store.

Sam slides in next to him, Natasha across from them. They get settled quickly, Sam pressed right up against Steve. Body heat seeps through Sam’s jacket into Steve. Steve has to suppress a shiver at the feeling. They haven’t...gone to bed yet but Sam’s gotten close, a lot closer than before. Steve’s used to Natasha in his space, touching him, getting close, from all the missions they’ve gone on together. Sam, though. Steve isn’t used to this, but he likes it. He definitely likes it.

Natasha peers at the menu, flipping through the pages. “What are you guys thinking of getting?”

Sam hums, reading carefully. Steve watches him look, can’t take his eyes away. “Sirloin, maybe. They have good fries here, so some of those, too.”

“Wanna share?”

“Sure.” They share a smile, then Sam glances over. “What about you? What are you getting?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”

“Too busy staring at Sam?” Natasha teases.

Sam chuckles, leaning even closer. A flush crawls up Steve’s neck to his face. “N--no,” he stutters. Dammit, why does she always do this to him? He opens his menu and picks the first thing he sees -- “I’ll get the -- the Classic Burger.”

“I’m going to get the grilled cheese, I think.”

“Oh, nice choice.”

They don’t talk much as the waitress comes, introduces herself, and takes their orders. Once they’ve got their drinks and their food is being made, Sam suggests, “How about we play the question game?”

“What’s the question game?”

“Basically taking turns asking questions to keep up conversation,” Sam explains, sipping at his Diet Coke.

“Uh, sure, okay. You wanna go first?”

“Yeah. Let’s see,” he sets his drink down and looks between Steve and Natasha. Steve bites his lip while Nat raises an eyebrow coolly. “Nat, if you had to choose between breaking up a fight between Liho and Figaro and breaking up a fight between Tony and Clint, which one would you pick?”

She taps his fingernails on the table, humming thoughtfully. “Liho and Figaro,” she says after a few moments. “Liho goes limp the second you pick her up, and then I could just lock her in the bedroom, so it’d be easier to keep them apart.”

“Knowing Tony and Clint, they’d _say_ they’d stop and then go at it in the vents,” Steve adds, thinking about the last time he’d seen them together. Somehow, Tony rejecting Clint’s overtures of friendship had become a game between them. Every time they’re in the same room, it’s like they have nothing better to do than throw around barbs.

Sam and Nat laugh, and a warm flush of pride sweeps through Steve. He made them laugh. He grins and looks down at his water.

Natasha shakes her head, “Don’t give them any ideas, Steve.”

“I try to avoid talking to them at all costs,” he admits. “The only two reasons they team up are to save the world and to tease me.”

“They do it to Bruce, too,” she offers.

Sam says, “I don’t think I’ve ever even said hi to Bruce. When I go up there, he’s always in his lab.”

“They go down there and bug him,” Nat explains. “And I’m pretty sure he’s avoiding you because god only knows what the Hulk would do in the face of all that beauty.”

Steve laughs as Sam hams it up, posing like a model. “You really think so?”

“Of course,” Steve and Natasha say as one. Sam really is beautiful, with his bright smile, his muscled arms and legs, and most of all, his personality. Everyone used to say Bucky could charm the skin off a snake, and the same goes for Sam. Except Sam would befriend the snake first.

Sam smiles at them both, big and wide, and Steve’s heart skips a beat like it used to.

Maybe Steve shouldn’t be with them. Maybe fate had other plans for the three of them. But he doesn’t care -- he has them and he’s not about to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a baby at relationship negotiation so please excuse me. This relationship is very much a triangle, not a V with Nat in the middle, though that would be pretty interesting. And probably make more sense. Oh well ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Find more about poly relationships [here](https://www.morethantwo.com/).


	4. Cockroach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There are no cockroaches in this chapter! Or any other types of bug!**  
>  Warnings for: temporary major character death, TWS-levels violence, grief, lots of cuss words, a panic attack, and Bucky has two voices in his head that are explored more in the next chapter. These voices are reminiscent of Mission Imperative from [Owlet's Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail](https://archiveofourown.org/series/195689).
> 
> Alternate chapter title: Pumpkin 2.0

[ ](https://imgur.com/FPcRAf1)

Their relationship changes once again. Steve doesn’t come live with them, he keeps his apartment in Dupont Circle, but he’s over more often.

Steve insinuates himself into the relationship nicely, spending more time with Sam than before. He and Nat go on lots of missions together still, but now, when she goes alone, Steve comes by and hangs out with Sam.

He crosses off a lot of the things on his list with Sam. Sam introduces him to Motown and Woodstock ‘69 and, just because Steve wants to know, the British Invasion.

Sometimes, Sam plays his swing music -- Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday. He knows now why he likes this genre so much. When he’d first told Misty about it all those years ago, Bucky’s Name on his arm had been blurred. But now he knows that his love for big bands comes from his ‘mate. Even if it doesn’t work like that. (Even though it totally, absolutely does.)

Steve loves listening to it with him, but it just makes him sad. He missed out on so much and it’s most obvious in these moments.

Sam tells Steve all the time he needs to go to the VA, but he doesn’t listen. In a way, Sam had been lucky that his brand of depression made him almost non-functioning. Steve can hide behind his, since he can function with it. Sam got help because he couldn’t get out of bed. Steve gets out of bed and everyone thinks he’s fine. It hurts Sam’s heart that Steve isn’t getting help.

Though their time together is fun and at times intimate, Bucky hangs over their heads, a ghost haunting them. His name is rarely spoken, though they both think of him often.

Sometimes, when Steve wants some space, he and Nat lay together in their bed, rings clinking, and she’ll tell him little things about Bucky. Sam’s heard them all before, even more now that he’s considered an honorary member of SHIELD, but it soothes the cracks in his heart.

Nat will never say anything about him in the light of day, where Sam can’t hide his feelings in their sheets, knowing how upset it makes them both. (Somehow, Sam thinks Steve’s anger at hearing Bucky’s name isn’t a sign of his serum going wrong, no matter what the freaky scientists who call at all hours of the night trying to reach Steve say.)

* * *

Steve rarely comes to visit him during his lunch hour, as most of their time spent together is spent at home. Nat comes more often, but only just. Usually, their schedules don’t match up.

One day soon after they started their relationship, Steve does one better -- he comes early (Sam totally, definitely did not give the wrong time on purpose) and sees one of Sam’s sessions.

Sam hated sitting in a circle, having everyone’s eyes on him. He’d hated sharing his triggers, his panic attacks, his problems, with everyone staring at him, willing him to get better. So he has his sessions like this, him up at a podium so there’s someone to look at, his vets in rows. They don’t have to sit by each other, they don’t have to come up to the stage with him. They can just sit there and talk and look right at him.

It’s easier, like this. It’s easier for Sam, too. He can’t sit on stage, so if he wants to move his legs or touch his hair to calm himself, he can.

Steve stands in the doorway and watches. A woman named Mary tells the group about a bag in the road she thought was an IED. It’s weird, but Sam likes these stories more than others. He was never on the ground like she was -- IEDs were never a serious problem for him. It’s easier to help when Sam doesn’t have similar triggers.

“Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it gonna be in a big suitcase...or in a little man purse? It’s up to you.”

When the session ends, Sam waits for everyone to leave before going to Steve. Only two of the vets stop him to talk, so he meets Steve quickly.

“Look who it is: my pumpkin.” Sam smiles and leads him towards a table of pamphlets. He’s gonna sneak one into Steve’s back pocket before he leaves if it kills him.

“Pumpkin?”

Sam tilts his head, not answering. Steve scrunches up his face, eyebrows coming together. The corners of his lips curl up attractively. Sam sometimes wonders how he doesn’t know how hot he is.

He leans up against the wall like he’s holding it up, crossing his arms awkwardly. Steve always feels so uncomfortable here. “You told me the wrong time.”

He shrugs, smile turning to a knowing smirk. “I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm.” Sam chuckles through his nose. Out of nowhere, Steve says, “I caught the last few minutes. It’s pretty intense.”

Sam looks down and shuffles the pamphlets. “Yeah, brother. We all got the same problems. Guilt, regret.” He bites the inside of his cheek, quirks an eyebrow. As if this is just some casual conversation.

Steve swallows, gaze unfaltering. “You lose someone?”

Sam purses his lips, looks away, puts his hands on his hips so they have something to do. “My wingman. Riley.” This is the hard part. _Just get through it and then he’ll know and he’ll ask Nat about Riley instead of me._ “Flying a night mission, standard PJ rescue op. Nothing we hadn’t done a thousand times before. ‘Til an RPG knocked Riley’s dumb ass out of the sky. Nothing I could do. It’s like I was up there just to watch.” His heart constricts in his chest.

Steve’s face turns to stone, but his voice is full of empathy when he says, “I’m sorry.”

Sam chooses not to acknowledge that. “After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know. It’s why I left. Coming home just made those feelings change. I couldn’t find a reason to get out of bed. I struggled a lot with...what happened.”

Steve blinks, glances away just long enough to compose himself. “Are you happy now? Being in the real world? With...us?”

“Of course I am. The only person telling me what to do is Nat, and you know she’s got nothing on a drill sergeant. But don’t tell her I said that.” Steve laughs, a small burst of mirth. _Time to get even more serious_ , Sam thinks. “Why? You thinking about getting out?”

“No... I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I did.”

He looks so forlorn and depressed, Sam _has_ to do something, _anything_ , to lighten the mood. “Ultimate fighting?”

Steve scoffs but Sam doesn’t care. He’s smiling, so it’s a win. “Sam, come on.”

“What? Just a great idea off the top of my head. But seriously, you could do whatever you wanna do. What makes _you_ happy?”

“For a long time...I don’t know. There used to be nothing. But now…,” he looks away, sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You and Natasha, you make me happy.”

“Even though we make food that you can’t stand?”

Steve rolls his eyes, leans in closer. “You do it on purpose.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” he repeats himself. “Anyway, we should probably take into consideration your old man stomach. What’d you survive on again?”

Together, they say, “Potatoes and cabbage.”

“And yet, knowing that, you two ply me with the spiciest food you can find.”

“Pumpkin, look, paprikash is _not_ that spicy.”

“‘Pumpkin’? Sam why do you keep calling me -- ”

* * *

Natasha holds her phone between her ear and her shoulder, saying, “Hello,” as she moves clothes from the basket to the washing machine.

“Natasha?” Steve’s voice wobbles, uncharacteristically emotional. His breathing, heavy and choppy, suggests he’d been running. Or crying.

Setting the basket down on the floor, she stays crouched. Something isn’t right. She’s never heard Steve breathe like this -- not when he’s running, not when he’s in the heat of the moment, never. And crying? He’s never cried, at least not that she’s seen. _Too tough to cry_ , she thinks distastefully, cursing the emotional stunting of the 1940’s.

“Steve. Where are you?” Her tone is gentle but firm.

“I’m uh...the hospital. SHIELD’s hospital.”

“Why?” Her mind lists off the reasons he could be there, considering he hasn’t had a mission since the Lemurian Star. Someone could’ve gotten hurt: Peggy, Sam, Sharon (who he still thinks is his neighbor named Kate). But then, Sharon would’ve called if it was her or Peggy. She’s Sam’s next of kin; if Sarah or Gideon had been with him, they would’ve called her. So if it’s not Sam…. Maybe he hurt himself, got in a wreck on his motorcycle. Visiting Peggy always wrecks him.

He swallows loud enough she can hear it. “I was -- Fury. He. He was...shot. Through the wall. He was already roughed up. I don’t….”

Natasha straightens quickly, leaving the clothes as they are, half in and half out of the washer. Sam will no doubt see it and know something’s wrong. She has no time to think about that, however. Her feet are sliding into her boots and she’s grabbing her jacket and keys before Steve can go on.

“What floor are you on.”

“Third, he’s in the operating room. Natasha….”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” she says sharply, hanging up.

* * *

_No. No, no, no._ It’s the only thing Natasha can think. _No._

She bypasses the elevator, takes the stairs three at a time. _No. No. No._

The hallway is teeming with people, agents and doctors lining the walls. She ignores them, stomping towards the surgery room. The doors fly open to the chorus of Natasha’s thoughts -- _no no no no no no no no no no._

Steve’s already standing there, staring through the glass. Nick looks small on the operating table, bloody and covered by a blanket. The doctors and nurses around him move quickly, shouting to each other. Her heart pounds in time with the words, going off like a gunshot every time.

Legs numb, she moves to stand up against the window. Maria is already in the room, talking on the phone. Natasha quickly takes note of her position in the room -- the corner, turned away from the window.

“Is he gonna make it?”

“I don’t know,” Steve mumbles.

“Tell me about the shooter.”

Slowly, morosely, Steve says, “He’s fast. Strong.” _Dammit, that could be anybody._ “Had a metal arm.”

She freezes. _Yasha._

Maria hangs up behind her, steps up to the window on Natasha’s left.

In barely a whisper, she asks, “What were the ballistics?”

“Three slugs. No rifling. Completely untraceable.”

“Soviet made.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

Her breath catches in her throat as the doctors use the defibrillator. _Don’t do this to me, Nick. Don’t do this to me._

They do it twice. Natasha feels her own heart rip into pieces both times, shredding in her chest. In the end, it doesn’t work. They give him a shot. It doesn’t work. They announce time of death.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Steve look upward and turn away. She’s blinking so hard, though, that she doesn’t really register it. She doesn’t register anything but the body of the man who’d walked her down the aisle. The man who accepted her, the man who taught her to be good.

This can’t be happening. Not to him. Not him. _Please, not him._

Maria walks away, too, sniffling. Natasha stays at the window, unwilling to leave him. They wheel him out after a few minutes. She doesn’t move. It feels like her feet are glued to the spot, like she’s filled with molasses. Her first thought is to run; the urge to call Sam comes next, overpowering the first.

Steve comes back, standing closer, turned towards her instead of the operating room. “Natasha.”

“I have to call Sam,” she says as calmly as she can. Concentrating on staying calm makes the tears stay away. She doesn’t want to cry. Steve sighs, pulling her to him. His chin rests on her head, which she tucks into his neck. Her fingers curl into his shirt, under his jacket. She feels, overwhelmingly, like smothering herself in his chest. “ _Fuck_ , Steve.”

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing a hand down her back, “I know.”

* * *

They go to visit Nick in a different room, once he’s been cleaned up. She only has so long to say her goodbyes, but she can do nothing but stand there and look at him. In all her memories of him, he’s been solid, like an anchor. He’s been steadfast and strong. Now he’s lying on a table, her standing over him, and like always, she feels unstable.

Something about this isn’t right. It’s not just that the entire situation feels unreal. That’s only part of it.

Apparently Yasha shot Nick through a goddamn wall. Who knows who paid for the hit -- she has no idea who has him now in the first place. He’d been KGB, like her. The KGB is long gone, and she can’t find anything to suggest who he was sold to. Finding out who paid for Nick’s death might be easier to trace, if she weren’t compromised.

(It’s not like the feelings you had for your first love fade.)

(It’s not like you see one of the best men you’ve ever known die and come out unscathed.)

Maria comes in, talks to Steve in a low, calm tone. It’s fabricated. If Natasha feels like Nick’s daughter, Maria is his princess. _Was_ his princess.

Heat presses against her eyes, tears pooling again. She has got to stop crying. _Enough is enough,_ she thinks sharply. It’s no good to be mad at yourself for crying like this, but she is. She needs to be angry, not sad. She needs to be determined to find Yasha, avenge Nick. She needs some courage to face Sam and Steve. And crying is only going to make her more upset. All it’s going to do is allow her to focus obsessively on Nick dying.

She’s cried enough. Time to rip the band-aid off.

Natasha steps away from Nick, leaves the room without looking at Maria or Steve.

Of course, her soulmate has to follow her to the hall. He reaches for her, catches her arm at the elbow. He turns her around, so she faces him. _Steve and his fucking manhandling,_ she thinks fiercely. Good, there’s still some anger left in her.

Rumlow, she notices, stands up straighter when they come out. Her ire turns to him. This asshole hates Nick. Unfortunately, he’s also the type to gloat and brag no matter the situation. If he even dares, she’ll make him regret ever opening his mouth. “Captain, you’re needed back at SHIELD.”

“Just a second,” Steve replies, distracted. He doesn’t look away from her, bloodshot eyes staying locked on hers.

“Captain, you’re needed back _now_.”

Steve turns to look at Rumlow, giving his best bitch face. Sam thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. Natasha can’t scrounge up enough amusement for even a smile right now. “Okay.”

He turns back to her, probably expecting a reprieve. He should know better by now that that isn’t how she rolls. “Why was Nick at your apartment?”

He shrugs with his whole body, unnaturally big shoulders rising and lowering. “I don’t know.”

She gives him a blazing up-down. Usually those make him blush, but not this time. There’s no lust in her eyes, just grief and anger. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He flounders for a second. Taking advantage of that, she twists her wrist out of his grip. She doesn’t stick around to see what other bullshit he’ll tell her.

Instead, she goes to a sitting room. No one else is in the room and the TV is blaring news reports. It’s the ideal place to call Sam, even if the chairs look extremely uncomfortable; brown faux-leather with hard-as-bricks arms that her hips don’t want past. To make matters worse, the back stops at the exact spot to give her no head support. Still, she sits. Getting up will be a nightmare. The call she’s about to make is going to be worse.

Her fingers tremble as she pulls up Sam’s contact in her phone. They tremble as she presses ‘call’ and brings the phone to her ear. ( _Why am I trembling? s_ he thinks a little hysterically. _I haven’t trembled since...since…whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just stop shaking, Natasha. Stop it._ )

It takes two rings for Sam to pick up. His tone is warm and affectionate when he answers, soothing Natasha, if only a little. “Hey, Pumpkin. What’s up?” It’s not his lunch time, and she never calls when she knows he has a session. Of course he can tell that something is going on.

“Sam,” she starts. There are lots of things she wants to say -- _Nick just died, I know the assassin, he was my first love, it wasn’t Nick’s time, please come find me, I don’t want to be alone_ \-- but none of them come out. All she does is repeat his name. “Sam.”

“Nat…? Hold on a sec,” he says. There’s noise in the background, like he’s talking to someone, then a door closes. “Natasha, what’s wrong?”

Her forehead falls to rest on her hand, palm covering her eyes. The goal is not to cry. There will be no more crying. It takes long moments for her to gather herself. Still, when she says, “Sam,” again, wetness gives his name an edge.

“Natasha, what’s going on?” _He’s so caring,_ she thinks. _He just wants to know what’s wrong._ She can do that, at least. She can give debriefs, compromised or not.

“Nick died,” she whispers. She can’t make herself say it any louder. She doesn’t want it to be real. “He was shot through the wall of Steve’s apartment and he died. Three bullets, no rifling, Soviet made. The assassin got away.”

Sam sighs heavily, audibly dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god.” He pauses, and she soothes herself by listening to him breathe. “Are you ok-- wait, nevermind. Where are you? Where’s Steve?”

She sniffles, straightening up. The chair creaks under her weight. “I’m at the hospital. Steve had to go back to HQ. We’re both okay.” In a manner of speaking. Steve hadn’t been shot, is what she means.

“I can come get you,” he says immediately, already making plans. He’s always like this, trying to protect her from everything.

“No, no, Sam, it’s alright. Your last session is at four, right?”

“Right.”

“It’s only one. Get through the end of the day, at least.”

“Nat, I can take off for this. They’ll understand.”

How is she supposed to say that if he touches her right now, which he is wont to do, she’s going to rebuff him? How is she supposed to say that she wants him as close as possible but nowhere near her at the same time? How is she supposed to say that she feels like a time bomb ready to go off at the slightest provocation?

“Sam, it’s okay. I’ll see you when you get off work. For now, I want to be alone.” There. That should work, right?

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Alright,” he says, more breath than word. “Okay. I will see you at five. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

* * *

Compromised does not mean unobservant.

Of course Natasha saw Steve had something in his hand. It’s not hard to tell when he’s hiding something. His shoulders draw up tight, his voice deepens, his ears turn red at the tips. Even his breathing changes, just a little.

Natasha straightens herself out in the bathroom, sees Maria off, and buys three packs of Hubba Bubba.

* * *

Getting slammed up against walls isn’t something Nat likes. She’s strong, a supersoldier in her own right. But she’s not into manhandling of any kind, except, maybe, when she’s the one doing it.

In this case, she’s had a bad day, and Steve is acting like an asshole. Jumpy, pissed off, murder-strutting everywhere he goes. She rarely sees him so hard around the edges. Something about her and Sam make him soft. Probably Sam’s ridiculously comfortable blankets that they drape over Steve, or the cuddling. Natasha doesn’t have time to think about that, though. Not with Steve in her face.

“Where is it?” He tries to sound threatening, but falls flat. He’s never been able to threaten her or Sam very well.

“It’s safe.” Does he think she’s going to just give it to him? He needs to screw his head back on.

“Do better than that.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Why would I tell you?” They stare at each other. There are lots of reasons he should tell her, their being soulmates the biggest one. Natasha narrows her eyes. _Jumpy doesn’t cut it,_ she thinks. He’s anxious. Steve Rogers doesn’t get anxious.

She can tell she’s going to have to pull answers out of him tooth and nail. Dammit.

“Nick gave it to you. Why?” First Nick was in Steve’s apartment, now he gave Steve a flash drive. That feeling of standing on uneven ground, of this whole thing being not right, washes over her. Why did Nick give Steve the flash drive from the ship? He hadn’t even told Steve about it in the first place, so why would he give it to Steve?

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Stop lying,” he spits. It’s just quiet enough not to be a shout. _Definitely not a spy_ , she thinks. If he had any sense, this conversation would be whispered. He would’ve closed the door. _God,_ she thinks, _he’s hopeless._

“I only act like I know everything, Steve.”

A cart in the hallway rattles; Steve looks away from her completely. She knows he’s still paying attention, but right now is the perfect moment to strike. He’s lucky she’s not interested in hurting him, or he’d be begging on the floor. Steve looks back at her, eyes blazing. “I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t you?”

No, actually. She hadn’t. But he doesn’t need to know that, does he?

Admittedly, she doesn’t hide it very well. Her mouth opens and closes a few times as she blinks at him. With every word, her tone rises higher. “Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Nick needed a way in, so do you.”

Steve pushes her against the wall again, roughly saying, “I’m not gonna ask you again.”

She isn’t ready to give it to him. She needs more information. _Give some up and get some back_ , she thinks. “I know who killed Nick.” He freezes, so she goes on, “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”

Finally, he softens. He sees this for what it is -- an offering. His grip loosens, and he’s downright gentle when he speaks. “So he’s a ghost story.”

“Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me.” She lifts her shirt to show off the bullet wound scar near her waist. Sam knows how she got it, just not who gave it to her. Steve’s seen it but never asked. Now he doesn’t have to. “Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye bye bikinis.”

“Yeah, you look terrible in ‘em now.” He smiles at her, sarcastic and sincere at the same time. She forces one back.

“Going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried.” She’s been trying since 1992. She holds the flash drive between them; he takes it without much force. “Like you said, he’s a ghost story.”

“Let’s find out what the ghost wants.”

* * *

Sam’s trying to clean the sweat from his jog off when there’s a knock on the door. Weird, he isn’t expecting anyone and the other two occupants of the house don’t knock. He sets his cup of orange juice and the towel down on the counter, and moves quietly to the backdoor.

It’s Steve and Nat standing there, anxiously shifting on their feet. Dust cakes their bodies, which immediately sets off alarms in Sam’s mind. Steve says, “Sorry Sam,” before he says anything else. “We lost our keys, we didn’t know where else to go.”

Sam’s face falls. “What’s going on?” This stinks of SHIELD and a mission. They’ve never done this, though. Sam has been mostly separate from their missions. He’s asked them to keep it that way. “Is this about Nick?”

“Let us in and we’ll tell you,” Nat says shortly. He steps back, giving them space; once they’re inside, he looks around -- no one seems to have followed them.

He closes the door, locks it tightly. He has to do this twice every night, more than that if he has a nightmare. The chain, the upper lock and the deadbolt on the door get locked. Once he’s sure it’s won’t open, he heads into the living room. Steve and Nat are whispering to each other fiercely, pausing when he comes in.

“Gonna tell me now?”

Nat makes shifty eyes. “SHIELD’s been compromised.”

He coughs, choking on spit. “Wha-- wait, wait, compromised? By who?“

Steve stands taller, squaring his shoulders. “Hydra.”

Nat gives him exactly zero time to process that. “We didn’t want to bring you into it but we need to lay low and they’ll know to target you. I have a safe house in Arlington. Pack a bag, we have to go as soon as possible.”

Shocked, he says, “Hydra? Really?”

Nat softens, closes the distance between them. Her hug is tight and warm -- she gives the best hugs in the whole world. “Yes, really. And you’re in danger. We need to go, so hurry, Pumpkin.”

Admittedly, Sam hates being given orders. He loves the freedom civilian life has. However, he also knows that the way Steve is pacing a rut in the floor and Nat’s hyper vigilance means shit hit the fan and he needs to do what they say.

“Okay, okay. It’ll only take a sec.”

He packs swiftly, his heart in his stomach and his stomach in his ribs. Nat comes in after a moment and helps, grabbing her own bag and one for Steve. Steve doesn’t have much in the way of clothes here, mostly pajamas and workout clothes; it all goes in a bag. Nat takes her most comfortable yet most ordinary items, he notices.

In an undertone, she says, “Sam...I know this is a lot to ask of you. We’re going to be on the run. I don’t know if you saw, but Steve is now a wanted man. Hydra knows about you, though, so we can’t just leave you here. You’ll get killed. They already got Nick.”

“It’s fine, Nat.” He’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since the Battle of New York. So maybe not totally fine but he can deal. He’s good in high pressure situations. “How’s he holding up?”

She flicks her eyes in his direction, eyebrows furrowing once they make eye contact. _Bad._

Sam wonders how Steve can possibly feel any worse than he already does. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” They’re quiet for a minute. Then, slyly, “If he were to fight Hydra, would you expect me to let him do it alone?”

Sam straightens, pulling her to sit on the bed. His hands hold her cheeks, thumbs rubbing under her eyes. She’s been crying. Maybe not recently, it’s been a few days since Nick died after all, but he can always tell. She’s a little more open, after she cries. A little more vulnerable.

Looking her right in the eye, feeling the weight of the moment, he says, “Of course not. And you know I’ll help any way I can.”

She cups his hands in hers. “I know you will.” They bask in the moment together. Sam can’t help but think it doesn’t last nearly long enough. “I’m going to go get something for you to eat. I know how you get in these situations.”

Coming out of her mouth, it’s not pity but compassion. God, he loves her.

A few minutes later, he’s munching on a granola bar that tastes like nothing. Steve and Nat are arguing about whether or not they should find another vehicle to borrow or not. Nat says yes, they’ve seen what we’ve got now; Steve says no, it’s impossible they saw it.

His eyes drift away from the pair, who argue like cats and dogs -- like America and Russia, really -- to the wall. What can he do here to help?

A light bulb clicks on over his head. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

He stands abruptly. The legs of the chair squeal as he moves; the sound makes both Nat and Steve flinch. They stop arguing long enough (unusual in itself) to see what he’s doing. Too bad for them, though.

On the tallest shelf in the linen closet, Sam keeps important documents. Not very practical in the event of a fire, but he’s got copies of most of them at his mom’s place and in his car. What he’s looking for he’s got only one copy of, unfortunately. Can’t be helped.

EXO-7. His wings.

Nat knows about them, he thinks. He’s rarely talked about his time in the Air Force, even with her. He does know, however, that Nat has combed through everything here, including the box of important papers. So yeah, she probably knows.

When he sets the file on the table, his wife and boyfriend wait him out.

“I could help. I’d just have to get my wings back.” He grins at them; they stare back. Nat’s much more introspective than Steve, who just looks confused.

“Wings? I thought you were a pilot.”

“I never said pilot.” Though, to be fair, it’s not like Sam doesn’t know how to pilot. It’d never been his job specifically, s’all.

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason.”

“Dude, my boyfriend, who happens to be Captain goddamn America, needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

Nat hums. “Where are your wings? Why haven’t we seen them before?”

Sam shrugs. “Fort Meade. Behind three guarded gates and a twelve inch steel wall.”

Steve and Nat share a look. Nat tilts her head, quirks her eyebrow. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” Steve says like it’s normal to break into Air Force bases.

Sam looks between them and wonders, not for the last time, just what the hell he married into.

* * *

A lot of things happen in very quick succession.

Sam calls Sarah and asks if she could take care of the cats for a little while. She says yes, thank god, and comes right over. She asks where they’re going -- “Spur of the moment type vacation thing,” he says very smoothly. He’s sure to tell her thanks and love you before she and the cats leave.

They steal another car, a Honda that’s very plain. Nat drives them to her safe house, making them both sit in the back, wearing disguises.

The safe house is small, with only one bedroom and one bathroom. There’s a queen size mattress on the floor of the bedroom, which has an uncovered light bulb with a metal chain. It looks like a nightmare, honestly. When he stands at the end of the bed, his legs touch the wall, there’s that little space.

“So...how long have you had this place?”

Nat looks up from where she’s digging through a bag of food they brought over. “Oh. Since before we met. I use it to help assassins get out.” She shrugs, goes back to searching for something.

Sam shares a look with Steve, who smiles a dopey, if tight, smile.

“It’s off the grid, so we should be safe for a night. First thing tomorrow morning, we have to get to Fort Meade. Debrief after, here. Okay? Okay, good. Now, where's that damn box of pasta?”

* * *

Getting Sam’s wings is about as easy as Natasha expected. All they needed to do beforehand was disable the cameras, and that was it. In, get the wings, out.

Kind of pathetic, really. If she can joke around while on a mission, it’s too easy.

Nabbing Sitwell is easy too. Sam plays his part well, being just enough of a douchebag that Natasha finds the whole act hot. And getting to kick Sitwell off a building? Talk about fun.

So of course, their ride back to the safehouse goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Sitwell is complaining about their plan when a loud thump comes from the roof of the stolen car. Sitwell is pulled out of the side window within seconds, a metal arm propelling him in front of a truck. There’s a gun in his hand; _fuck_.

In seconds, Natasha is in the front seat, on Steve’s lap, pulling his head down and pushing at Sam’s body with her foot. Bullets hit both headrests, seconds after Sam crunches into himself and she curls Steve’s head into her chest. Steve shifts gears into park, and the tires squeal as they come to an abrupt stop.

Yasha gets flung off the car, turning the fall into a roll at the last second. His metal fingers drag at the street, deep indents helping slow him down. He comes to a stop, stands, never once looking up.

( _Don’t look him in the eyes, Natalia. Don’t make eye contact. It confuses him. You wanna fight him, go right ahead, treat him like a human being. He’ll fight, then. If you don't want to fight him, don’t look him in the fucking eye._ )

Cars pass them as he straightens, looking but not seeing. Or maybe seeing but not looking. His goggles don’t make for good eye contact; she has no idea where he’s looking, what he’s planning.

She pulls out her gun, ready to shoot to incapacitate -- he doesn’t deserve death but if his mission is to stop them she has to stop him, first. Then an armored car rams into them from behind, sending them careening forward, the other car in their car’s ass. Her gun goes flying.

Sam tries to steer, tries to move away from the ramming car, but nothing works. The closer they get to Yasha, the more it seems like he’s a statue they’re going to hit. At the last second, he propels himself onto the roof like the goddamn professional he is. The back window shatters under the force of his feet slamming into it, the roof denting under his weight. Sam slams on the brakes; it does nothing but increase the friction on the road.

She tries to reach for her gun --

Yasha’s metal hand comes down through the windshield, and pulls the steering wheel all the way out of the car. Sam yells, “Shit!” just as she gets a hold of her gun. It’s in the air instantly, aimed at the ceiling. Just as she shoots, Yasha jumps onto the car behind them.

That vehicle gives them space for all of five nanoseconds before coming back to slam into them. Their car swerves, goes up onto the median. Steve straps his shield on his arm as they go up, and the second the car is back even on the road again, he grabs at Nat’s waist and Sam’s arm, shouting, “Hang on!” Then the back tires are going up, and he’s pushing the door off it’s hinges completely.

The three of them clutch at each other as they land hard, the car rolling onto its roof and then spiraling, getting knocked ass over tea kettle. The car door they’re curled up on skids and drags, sparks coming off it from the friction. A tire goes flying. Sam gets loose, falling from the door and rolling on the road. She winces, wondering how they’re going to treat his road rash if they’re all fugitives.

When the door comes to a stop, Yasha hops off the other vehicle; she and Steve stand quickly, watching as a Hydra Goon hands Yasha a goddamn grenade launcher.

Natasha’s heart stutters in her chest out of pure fucking fear.

* * *

Sam doesn’t even have time or energy or brainpower to be worried about anyone but himself. Sounds selfish but you try focusing on anything but keeping yourself alive when all you’ve brought to a gunfight is a knife.

(And also, Steve and Natasha both went over the side of the freeway. It’s not his fault he’s not focused on them.)

He creeps up behind Asshole, kicks at the back of his knee. Asshole turns around with a grunt, and Sam is there punching him right in his asshole jaw. He sweeps his knife, catching the guy across the chest. Then, because Sam is feeling a mix of ‘I’m a BAMF’ and ‘fuck fuck fuck’, he kicks Asshole. Asshole goes careening over the side of the bridge, which Sam might feel bad about later, when he can focus on something that isn’t that scary motherfucker trying to kill his wife and boyfriend. What he cares about now is that he’s acquired a gun -- a good one, too.

He picks off Asshole Dos, then gets in a shooting match with Asshole Tres. Steve overpowers his first Asshole, or at least, the first Sam sees, then looks up at him. (Sam kinda wants to tell him, _don’t fucking look at me while I’m covering your six,_ but Asshole Tres knows where he is, so it doesn’t matter if every Asshole there knows he’s in this spot.) “Go! I got this!” He shouts instead.

Steve goes.

Sam keeps shooting at Asshole Tres until Asshole Tres stops shooting period.

Then he traipses his way back to the wrecked car that Scary Motherfucker and the Assholes ravaged and grabs his wings. For the first time since that night, they feel right on his back, like they’re a part of him.

* * *

By the time Sam gets to where Steve and Nat are, Scary Motherfucker’s mask and goggles are gone. He’s coming in from behind, so all Sam sees is the same mop of dark hair he saw earlier. And that metal arm. That damn metal arm is seared into his retinas for the rest of his life. Nightmare RPG, meet your new friend: Scary Motherfucker’s Metal Arm.

No time for introductions though, not when Sam has some head-kicking to do. Which he does promptly and, if you ask him, spectacularly. Scary Mofo goes down hard.

Sam also goes down less smoothly than he’d wanted but whatever. He’s on solid ground. It counts.

Scary Mofo gets up quickly, and he and Steve stare at each other. Then Scary Mofo pulls up his gun and Steve ducks just in time for Nat’s grenade to not go straight through his idiot head.

Scary Mofo turns his head sharply, and Sam catches just a glimpse of it.

And his first thought is _absolutely fucking not_.

* * *

It’s not the first time Sam’s been arrested. It’s not the first time he’s been arrested and feared for his life because a white guy had a gun on him either.

It _is_ the first time his arrest is broadcast on live television. Which is. So bad on so many levels and he doesn’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing that he left his phone at home. God, his family is probably having a collective panic attack right now. All the guns trained on him and his wife and boyfriend are surely causing his Mom to flip her shit.

He can’t really spare a single brain cell for that though, not when he’s got more important things to focus on. Like his wings being taken away, and getting shoved into a containment van, and his wife fucking bleeding to death.

_Yeah, sorry Mom. More important things. I’ll call you later._

Steve and Natasha are shoved in, too. Both of them get bigger restraints than his. Steve’s are frankly ridiculous, hands crossed in his lap and legs shut up tight against the seat.

When Steve starts talking, he confirms Sam’s worst nightmare of all, one he hadn’t thought up until today: Scary Mofo is Bucky.

Steve’s got his sad voice going in full effect, but Sam isn’t really taking anything in but the words themselves. “It was him. He looked right at me. And he didn’t even know me.”

Sam says the first thought that springs to mind -- “How’s that even possible, it was like 70 years ago.” What he really means by that is _you’re finally going senile Steve because that was not Bucky. No way no how, not Bucky._

Natasha says nothing. She hasn’t said anything since before they got shoved in here. Sam’s worried but nothing is trumping the panic and the adrenaline crash.

“Zola,” Steve says, so little feeling in the name. It sounds like a curse coming out of his mouth. Bile rises in Sam’s throat. Zola. He knows that name. It’s hidden in the deepest recesses of the memoirs Sam’s read. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall. He must’ve found ‘im.”

“None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Nat grits out.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky,” he sighs, avoiding Nat’s words.

Sam has to look away; Nat’s bloody shoulder catches his attention. Anything to keep his mind off Bucky works just fine, and this is the best option. “You need to get a doctor here,” he says as strongly as he can manage to the guards. “We don’t put pressure on that wound, she’s gonna bleed out here in a -- “

The guard nearest him pulls out their electric weapon, and he jerks back. _Shit, okay, no doctors,_ he thinks, then can’t conjure a thought when that guard hits the other guard instead of him. Guard Dos gets a kick to the head, which satisfies Sam very much, and Guard Uno is pulling their helmet off.

“Ahh,” the woman says, “that thing was squeezing my brain.”

Sam stares at her. She stares back. Sam’s been shocked so many times in the past day that this is hardly a blip on his radar.

“You Sam?” She asks after a moment.

“Yeah. You...Sharon?”

“No, Maria.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says, all friendly like they aren’t restrained in the back of a Hydra containment van.

For the second time in two years, Sam wonders just what the fuck he got into.

* * *

Maria has tech that cuts through the floor of the van. It also cuts through their restraints and makes no noise. Sam really likes this thing.

He doesn’t like having to tuck and roll while  trying not to get run over, but that’s another matter. In the end, it’s a quick operation, getting out and stealing another van. He spends the ride with his hands putting pressure on Nat’s wound, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

When they come to a stop outside the Lakeview Cemetery Dam, Steve gets out first, helping Natasha make the step down. Sam sticks close behind, a hand on her back. Maria opens a door made of poles, then they’re walking down a hall. Maria and some guy behind them shout about Natasha’s wound; Sam adds that she’s maybe lost two pints, not one. Maria says, “She’ll want to see him first.”

See who? Who is there to see down here? His traitorous heart suggests, _Bucky?_ He snaps at himself to shut up. He’s not thinking about Bucky.

Maria pulls some panes of plastic away, and then they’re staring at Nick Fury, laying in a hospital bed.

“About damn time,” he gruffs.

A single sob bursts out of Natasha, and then she’s rushing forward to his bed, pressing her face to his chest. “Fuck you.”

Nick pats her back a few times, robotically. Either he’s still in pain or he’s uncomfortable. “I know.”

* * *

A few minutes later, the doctor guy is tending to Natasha’s wound. Sam feels about two ounces of tension seep out of him. He crosses his arms, trying to hold himself together a little longer. He’ll have time to deal with everything when this is all over. In twenty-four hours, he should be out of the woods. They only had sixteen hours tops back on the freeway.

“Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, one hell of a headache.”

“Don’t forget your collapsed lung,” the doctor reminds.

“Oh, let’s not forget that,” Nick says, dry as the Saharan desert. “Otherwise, I’m good.”

“They cut you open, your heart stopped,” Nat counters, the tiniest wobble in her words.

“Tetrodotoxin B, it slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Banner developed it for stress. Didn’t work so great for him but we found a use for it.”

“Why all the secrecy,” Steve demands. “Why not just tell us?”

Maria says, “Any attempt on the Director’s life had to look successful.”

“Can’t kill ya if you’re already dead,” Nick drawls. “‘Sides, I wasn’t sure who to trust.”

* * *

Asset keeps his eyes pinned to the place where the wall and floor meet, and he _thinks_. Asset isn’t supposed to think, but he is anyway.

Target, Captain Rogers, said something to Asset. A name. Bucky.

Asset has no words to describe his reaction. He does not feel emotions, or pain. So why does his chest ache. Why are his lungs tight. Is he malfunctioning.

Why did Target say that name.

A flash of a piggy little face comes to him, a man he knows to be Doctor Zola saying, “Sergeant Barnes.” What does that mean. Who is that.

The Arm shoots out, pushes Technician away.

A train goes full speed on a snowy mountain. Target is there, hanging out one of the doors. “Bucky!” He shouts. Voice analysis: distressed. Target reaches out an arm, shouts “No!” Target’s voice echoes.

There is a ravine at the bottom of the mountain. It gets closer and closer. Someone is screaming.

A man wearing thick clothes and a ushanka is dragging something. He is not alone. There are three men. The first one is dragging a body. The body has only half a left arm.

“The procedure has already started,” Doctor Zola says as Asset sees a bloody trail come from the half-arm.

There are more hands. A saw, cutting at the half-arm.

Asset hears Technician grunt. He must be malfunctioning; oxygen is filling his lungs as though he’s running.

“You are to be the new Fist of Hydra,” Doctor Zola informs as two hands come up, one flesh and bone and one metal. The metal fingers curl and snap out, grabbing Technician by the neck and squeezing. Another man stabs him with sedatives. Doctor Zola’s face comes into eyesight, smiling. _Dogface,_ Asset’s mind spits. He doesn’t know what it means. “Put him on ice.”

Then cryo. Ice covers everything. Asset glimpses the face of the man. The metal arm and the face. They are. Familiar.

The man who fell, the man who was dragged. That man was him.

He swings the Arm, catching Technician in the chest and throwing him across the room. Another Technician runs to the first Technician’s side. The guards all aim their guns right at him. Analysis: six guns; too easy.

But Asset is malfunctioning. Reanalysis: six guns; do not engage.

He sits in the Chair, tense and trembling. He does not speak until Handler comes. More guards come in while they wait. They all point their weapons straight at him.

When Handler comes, he makes the guns go down. Asset does not loosen his muscles. Just because there are no longer any guns pointed at him does not mean he’s not going to get punished.

“Mission report,” Handler orders. Asset does not answer. “Mission report, now!” Handler says, sharper. He advances closer, dress shoes clicking on the floor. He leans down, and Asset does not look at him. Asset knows better. Still, Handler slaps Asset with the back of his hand.

Asset has to answer Handler. “The man on the bridge…” Asset sees Target say Bucky, like a dream. Asset hasn’t dreamed since...since...as far as he can remember. “Who was he?” Then Asset does what he’s not supposed to -- he looks Handler in the eye.

Handler tells him, “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

That doesn’t sound right. Asset doesn’t know Target from another assignment. Asset knows Target from something else, _somewhere_ else.

“I knew him.” _He’s my best friend._ The thought rips through him but he has no time to process it.

Handler pulls Technician's chair over and sits down. “Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But, if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine and Hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Asset understands. But...he asked a question and it wasn’t answered. This is important. He needs to know who Target is. He knows he’ll be punished for this but something is screaming at him that he cannot let this go. “But I knew him.”

Handler stands, orders, “Prep him.”

Technician hesitates. “He’s been out of cryofreeze too long.”

“Then wipe him and start over,” Handler says.

Asset thinks that if he were human, he’d be crying right now.

* * *

“Look, I didn’t know about Barnes,” Nick says to Steve.

Sam so supremely doesn’t want to think about it. There are bigger and more important things going on that need his attention. They have so little time and so much to do.

But Nick saying it cements it more than Steve saying it. If Nick’s saying it, it’s real. Bucky is the Winter Soldier. Bucky is still alive.

His soulmate is still alive.

Oh, god. Oh fuck. It’s real. He’s real.

Sam presses his crossed arms tighter, as though he can keep his heart in one piece with pressure. _It’s not working,_ he thinks, horrified. They’ve barely touched on what’s happened to Bucky but he knows it wasn’t good. Experimentation that kept him alive. Amnesia so bad he doesn’t remember his oldest friend. Fighting for Hydra.

Fuck, it’s bad.

“Even if you had, would you’ve told me?” Steve demands, all combative and pissed off and grieving. “Or would you have compartmentalized that, too? SHIELD, Hydra, it all goes.”

“He’s right,” Maria says quietly. Nick looks to her, then Natasha.

His eye moves to Sam next, and all Sam can say is, “Don’t look at me. I do what he does, just slower.”

* * *

“He’s gonna be there, you know,” Steve says, not looking at Sam.

“I know.” He swallows, comes closer. “Whoever he used to be -- “ _the best damn Sergeant I’ve ever met,_ Falsworth had said; _a great man, one of my dearest friends,_ Jones had written “ -- the guy he is now -- ” Sam had called him Scary Mofo with good reason “ -- I don’t know if we can save him. We might have to...to stop him.” And it tears his fucking heart out but it has to be said.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Steve says.

“Well, he might not give you a choice.” God only knows what Bucky’s gonna do. “He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know us.”

“He will. Gear up. It’s time.”

The last thing Sam wants to do is fight his soulmate. It’s looking like he’s about to help put a dictator in charge, though, so Sam has no choice.

Steve walks away, and Sam thinks, _dammit_ . He doesn’t _want_ this. He doesn’t want any of this. “You gonna wear that?”

“No. If you gonna fight a war, you gotta wear a uniform.”

Sam watches his walk for a few moments, frozen in his spot. He’s about to go stop Hydra, the organization that supposedly killed his soulmate but instead experimented on the guy. He’s about to go stop millions of people from dying.

He sighs, rubs at his temples. _Fucking shit_ , he thinks, then hurries after Steve so he can get his wings on.

* * *

Shit goes sideways about five seconds after it starts.

The sirens start to go off and though Sam can barely hear them, all he can think about is the damn air raid sirens, the ones that signaled bombs were about to start raining down. Then the helicarriers come out of the Potomac and Sam’s stomach drops to his feet.

He and Steve separate, Steve going down and him going up.

Asshole Guns shoot at him as he flies, and it’s a real workout twisting and turning to avoid them. He thinks he quips something to Steve, but he can hardly focus on anything but staying alive so he isn’t sure.

Maria’s voice in his ear asks, “Falcon, status?”

“Engaging,” he grits out. He makes a few more turns, then pulls out his guns and lands feet first on Insight Asshole Uno’s chest. Bullets go in Insight Asshole Dos. “Alright, Cap, I’m in.” He spots a quinjet coming for him, and amends, “Shit!”

It’s much, much harder to avoid the bullets of Insight Quinjet Asshole. He manages, somehow, up until the moment Insight Quinjet Asshole blows up another quinjet, causing him to land hard.

In a badass move Mom will never hear about, Sam jumps over the side and shoots the Insight Quinjet Assholes (because there were two the whole time) as he does it. He arches his fall, making a ‘c’ shape and letting his wings out halfway through it. Insight Quinjet Assholes follow him under the helicarrier.

Maria again calls for his status, so he shouts, “Half-second detour!”

Insight Quinjet Assholes send more missiles after him, and he has a blast making them hit the helicarrier and not him. A crater opens up, which he narrowly avoids by dropping his wings. The second he can, he’s flying again, up into the helicarrier and replacing the chip.

In no time at all, Steve is calling for a ride and almost falling all the way to ground because he can’t bother to give Sam some warning. (“I just did.” God, Steve is supposed to have manners. Sam’s never seen something so rude in his entire life and one of his cousins doesn’t believe in silverware!) He’s heavy as shit, too, so later, after his freakout, he’s gonna chew Steve a new one.

“You know, you’re a lot heavier than you look,” he says, hinting at what’s to come. Steve cringes, starts to say something, but then Bucky is kicking him over the side. Sam honestly blanks out, it happens so fast. One second it’s just him and Steve, sharing banter like all good superheroes do (Tony’s words, not Sam’s), and the next Steve is gone, replaced by Bucky Barnes. It takes a good long half second for his brain to catch up with what he saw and then he’s shouting, “Steve!”

He opens out his wings, heart in his throat. He’s got no time to think about Bucky, about his soulmate who just kicked his boyfriend off the side off a helicarrier. Maybe he should spare some thought, though, because Bucky’s not playing around.

Bucky clamps his hand down on the arch of his wing and jerks him to a stop. Sam hits the side of the helicarrier hard -- damn that’s gonna bruise. His thoughts spiral to Steve, then Bucky. He wonders, vaguely and nauseatingly, if Bucky is going to kill him. Bucky throws him up in the air by the wing, aiming backwards so Sam can’t help Steve. Maybe he won’t kill Sam but he’s certainly not going to pull any punches.

Sam wastes no time and pulls out his guns, aiming to incapacitate, not kill. This is his soulmate, after all, the guy he’s pined for since he was sixteen years old. The guy who’s his perfect match out of everyone in the whole world. Killing him would be like killing himself. To have him this close and lose him that fast...it would wreck Sam. So he has to either avoid this fight all together or try his hardest to keep them both alive. No way he can avoid the fight -- Bucky isn’t about to let him -- so he’s gonna have to make sure they live through it. This’ll be as easy as pie, he tells himself.

Bucky twists like a damn ballerina, though, and avoids every bullet. Sam wants to be impressed but it’s easier to wish he’d just get shot and let them save the world. Shot somewhere non-fatal, of course. Sam doesn’t give much of a shit about all the other Hydra goons but this goon, he’s got a vested interest in.

Despite that, the second he hides, Sam goes after Steve. Sam’s kind of falling in love with Steve after all and it’s important to him that the big oaf doesn’t die.

He’s barely gotten anywhere when he feels his wings get rocked by something grabbing ahold of them. His wings get jerked back by a rough pull, so forceful that it turns him around completely.

He sees Bucky, holding some sort of grappling hook. The asshole poked a hole in his wing with a grappling hook? Is he serious? What is this, a Bond movie?

Bucky bunches up an extra bit of the metal rope at his end and jerks it down. Sam lands mostly on his shoulder, his wings under him, and most likely bruising him with the force of the fall. The pain is awful, metal against skin, sharp edges pressing into Sam’s already battered body. Then Bucky jerks the rope back again, quick and sharp, and Sam’s wing goes flying all the way off, flung over Bucky’s shoulder without a care. His heart jumps to his throat; his pulse beats in his ears. That wing is one of the only things he has left of Riley, and Bucky just...threw it away like it’s nothing. Like it’s not making Sam useful here, like it’s not a big part of Sam’s life. Like it’s not what’s keeping him safe and not dead.

Any other person and Sam would fuck them up. But he can’t do that because this is his stupid soulmate, who is unfairly strong. Sam can’t wait until he gets to punch this guy. That won’t kill him, right?

Bucky drops both the grappling hook and wing, then rushes him. _Scary Mofo indeed_ , Sam thinks a touch hysterically, at the predator coming after him.

Sam scrambles to his feet, planning on doing something, anything. Jump to the side? Run like hell? Engage? What does he do in this situation?

Getting up doesn’t help shit, though -- all it does is make it easier for Bucky to kick him in the chest and send him over the side. Sam pinwheels his arms, trying to catch something, but there’s nothing _to_ catch. He stumbles over the edge, nothing but air under him, and then he’s no longer on his feet. He’s gotten used to flying this past day, even with the years between him and the last time he flew. His past experience and practice today don’t help him this time. With only one wing, he can’t fly. Which means one thing. He’s falling.

He’s falling from higher than Bucky fell, just slightly below where Riley was. Neither are comforting thoughts, because no matter how high he is, he’s still _falling_.

Oh god, no. No, no, no. He’s gonna fucking splat on the ground and have to be scraped up off it like a pancake. God, Nat is gonna have to scrape him off the ground.

All the air in his lungs leaves him in a rush, mouth going dry and nose starting to burn. He turns ass over tea kettle repeatedly, which only serves to make him nauseous. He really doesn’t want to throw up, not up here. Not when gravity would do its job and it’d get all over him. Oh god, he’s gonna throw up. His stomach cramps up, turns as he does; bile rises in his throat. He’s gonna --

 _Think, Sam! Think! What can you do here?_ Nat yells at him in her scared voice. He hates hearing it -- he hates when she’s scared -- but somehow, it comforts him now. Nat won’t let him die. _You gotta do something to make sure you don’t turn into a pancake. Think!_

He tries to breathe, tries to do something to calm down. It’s like there’s no air up here -- his gulps feel like they’re empty, like he’s not taking anything in. His chest heaves, caught somewhere between a gag and a gasp.

 _Get the wing off_ , Riley tells him. _There’s a parachute under it. You know this, Sam. Just get that wing off._

Barely thinking, he presses a button hidden on the shoulder strap, and the wing pops off. He pulls at hooks just within reach on his back, and the parachute shoots out, catching his fall just in time. His shoulder protests at the way he jerks back again. He lands bad on a roof, ankles and knees almost jamming with how hard he comes down on them.

He stumbles, legs numb. Now that he’s on solid ground, he realizes that his whole body has pins and needles, it’s tingling and feeling flush.

Oh god.

He sits on his ass, curls his knees into his chest on autopilot. It takes a minute to catch his breath; once he does, he’s calling, “Steve? Steve, come in, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m still on the helicarrier. Where are you?”

“I’m grounded. The suit’s down. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I got it.”

 _Oh, good,_ he thinks, laying down now. Steve’s got it; he can relax for a minute, pull himself together. _Shit. Fucking shit._

* * *

Asset has three Targets. One, Annoying Flying Target, is down. One, Traitor Target, is not on the helicarriers and therefore not his problem. One, Excessively American Target, is trying to turn the last helicarrier off. Excessively American Target is trying to keep the world bad, and Asset can’t allow that.

He stands in front of the console where the chips are, staring straight at Excessively American Target. Excessively American Target is wearing the flag, which Asset notes is very attention-catching. Excessively American Target can’t hide like this. _Dumb ass_ , a fond voice that sounds almost like his drifts through his mind. Asset ignores it.

“People are gonna die, Buck,” he says like Asset will just move out of his way and allow Excessively American Target to let chaos reign. The name he calls Asset doesn’t register. “I can’t let that happen.” Asset can. “Please don’t make me do this.” Voice analysis: strained. Assessment: is he gonna stop talking any time this century. Asset is here to fight and kill, not talk.

Finally, Excessively American Target sighs, breathes in sharply, and throws his shield. Asset blocks it quickly with the Arm. It goes back to Excessively American Target like a boomerang, returning to his arm quickly. Asset raises his arm, gun in hand. A clean shot to the head will be the quickest way to do this, after all. He fires; every bullet ricochets off the shield, nearly hitting Asset.

Asset steels himself and fights, hitting the shield with his gun, twirling. He uses the move to pull another gun out, and turns again, aiming up with the Arm and down with the other arm. Bullets hit the shield uselessly, while one scrapes by Excessively American Target’s ribs, cutting through his suit and drawing blood. Primal satisfaction curls through Asset.

He stands from his crouch, intending to jump on Excessively American Target. But Excessively American Target slams his shield into Asset, throwing him onto the walkway in front of the console. Asset’s guns go flying to either side of the walkway.

Assessment: Excessively American Target is a cockroach. He won’t fucking die no matter what Asset does.

Asset pulls a knife out of his belt, creeping up to his feet. For some reason, Excessively American Target decides to fight with his fists, punching Asset first, then slamming the shield into Asset’s head again. They swing at each other multiple times, dodging and ducking. Asset kicks Excessively American Target and tries to slice him with his knife, but that damn shield is there, blocking.

The elbow of the Arm catches the shield, and Excessively American Target uses that to push Asset away. Asset stumbles -- _he fucking stumbles_ \-- and Excessively American Target immediately goes to the console Asset is no longer protecting, pressing buttons so the chips come down.

Asset can’t allow that to happen. He rushes Excessively American Target, starting up their dance of a fight. If Asset wasn’t fighting him, if he wasn’t evil and trying to keep the world chaotic, Asset thinks he might be impressed. It’s not easy to fight Excessively American Target. Any other day and no one can beat him in a fight. But now, here, it’s annoying. Asset has to stop Excessively American Target to save the world and this asshole won’t go down.

Excessively American Target presses down on his arm with the shield, the other hand gripping at Asset’s flesh one. The knife in his flesh hand is so close, if Excessively American Target gives up even a little, Asset will have it in his chest. The Arm is holding the shield away. They are evenly matched. The Arm recalibrated, shifts with the pressure put on it.

Asset pushes and Excessively American Target pulls and they separate. Excessively American Target kicks Asset in the chest, and Asset falls back like some sort of amateur. He doesn’t land on his back but it’s a close thing.

Excessively American Target takes out the chip, and almost gets the other one out before Asset is back, stopping him. He blocks Asset’s punch with his shield. The vibrations wash over Asset’s whole body. Excessively American Target seems almost unaffected, wasting no time in pushing Asset away with the shield. Asset does not let go, so Excessively American Target has to come with. They stop just off the walkway to the console, Asset letting go and very quickly dodging the swinging shield. He blocks a second swing with the Arm, the punches Excessively American Target’s Excessively American Jaw. Excessively American Target isn’t phased; he punches Asset. Asset is thrown into the railing on the other side of the walkway, putting a dent in it.

A strange flush of warmth blooms in Asset’s chest. Asset doesn’t know what it means. That same voice from earlier calls, _good, Steve, protect yourself from me._

The implications are not good. Assessment: Asset is...uncomfortable. Asset is not supposed to be uncomfortable. Asset cannot feel uncomfortable. Reassessment: Excessively American Target must be be manipulating Asset, putting this voice in his programming. Asset _cannot_ let Excessively American Target gain control of him. Sub-assessment: the voice is now the Traitor.

Asset roars with rage, clotheslining Excessively American Target and sending them both over the railing. They both land on a scaffolding that curves down, and the chip that needs to be back in its place starts to skid away from them. Just at the end of the scaffolding is a flat area; the chip slides to a stop there.

Asset has an incline, while Excessively American Target has a decline. It’s easy to meet in the middle and struggle against each other. Punches are thrown. Asset punches, and Excessively American Target twirls to get away, lands on his back, and slides to the chip. Asset drops and slides, too. In the flat area, they spar again. The chip goes flying all the way down to the glass below them. Excessively American Target hits Asset’s jaw, rattling his teeth. Asset goes down; Excessively American Target kicks him and sends him  over the edge after the chip.

Excessively American Target jumps down after Asset and nearly lands on him. Asset rolls out of the way just in time. Excessively American Target wastes no time and runs to where the chip has gone, some distance away. Asset grabs the shield, which has fallen with them, and slings it at Excessively American Target. Excessively American Target pitches forward, falling with no grace. He flips to his back as Asset runs towards him, pulling out his gun and shooting. Somehow, Excessively American Target has gotten his shield up and covering him in the time it took Asset to get his gun.

Every bullet is repelled by the shield. Assessment: cockroach motherfucker.

Excessively American Target throws the shield at Asset; the Arm deflects it. Thankfully, it is out of the equation for now. He pulls out another knife, lunging for Excessively American Target. They grapple for only a moment: Asset pushes against Excessively American Target’s hold and finally, finally gets his knife in the asshole’s shoulder.

Excessively American Target screams, and that fucking Traitor says, _no no no not Stevie no no. Stop hurting him. Why won’t I stop hurting him._ Voice analysis: upset. Assessment: Excessively American Target wants Asset to stop fighting. Asset will not stop fighting. Fuck Excessively American Target and fuck the Traitor.

Excessively American Target headbutts Asset several times, trying to dislodge him. Asset lets go, pushes Excessively American Target away. Excessively American Target slips the knife out with a tearing noise.

Asset lunges for the chip, but Excessively American Target is there instantly, on Asset and trying to take it away. Asset has it, though. No chance in hell is Excessively American Target getting the chip.

Then Excessively American Target does something unexpected -- he gets a hand around Asset’s neck and lifts, holding him approximately two feet above the floor. Asset hacks, kicking at Excessively American Target ineffectively. Asset doesn’t let go of the chip.

Excessively American Target grunts, flips Asset so Asset’s head is between Excessively American Target’s legs and he’s resting more on his metal shoulder than his back. They struggle again; Asset’s flesh hand is pulled up to Excessively American Target’s shoulder while the Arm is pinned under Excessively American Target’s knee. Excessively American Target holds Asset’s wrist between his arm and chest tightly. With that hand he grips Asset’s elbow tightly, the other hand pressing Asset’s face away. In this position, Excessively American Target could pull his arm right out of its socket.

“Drop it!” Excessively American Target yells. Asset gets the Arm free and tries to punch Excessively American Target futilely. The Arm can’t get anywhere near close enough to get him out of this hold. “Drop it!”

Asset doesn’t fucking drop it. He’d have to be dead to do that. Excessively American Target twists and with a sickening crunch, Asset’s flesh arm is injured. Asset shouts out in pain, which only goes to show how badly his programming is malfunctioning. Asset knows better than to scream from pain like this. There are much better things to scream about.

Asset very forcefully pushes thought of his impending punishment away. He steels his resolve, holds the chip tighter, and flips them.

Unfortunately, Excessively American Target is ready for the shift. He drops to his back and puts Asset in a chokehold. Pressed back to front, Asset cannot breathe. Though he is a weapon, he is living. He needs oxygen. The Arm tries to get Excessively American Target’s thicker ones away from Asset’s throat. It doesn’t work; Asset kicks and bucks, turns to the side to try to loosen the hold. Excessively American Target won’t let him move.

Finally, the Arm pulls the arm not over his throat away. However, Excessively American Target has him in another hold in seconds; the Arm gets pinned by one of Excessively American Target’s legs. Excessively American Target is curled around him like a spider taking out its prey. Asset is not prey. Asset is a predator.

Asset licks his lips, trying to breathe. It’s increasingly difficult. No matter how Asset kicks, Excessively American Target doesn’t let go. Excessively American Target holds tighter, pressing more against his throat. Air is leaving him and not returning. Asset heaves, but it’s useless. A cold feeling rises in his skin. Slowly, with no air in his lungs, he blacks out.

* * *

Sam’s got about zero time for this Rumlow asshole. The second Rumlow steps in the room, Sam punches him in his dumb Nazi jaw.

Rumlow grunts, moving further into the room. Sam follows, grabbing him around the neck and kneeing Rumlow in the chest. Rumlow brings his arms up in the space between Sam’s, and pushes them away.

Then he headbutts Sam and shoves him back. Sam slides against the floor embarrassingly, wiping at his mouth and covering his face. If this asshole shoots….

“This is gonna hurt,” Rumlow says in the exact same tone some guys say, ‘you’re gonna feel it for days’. All bark and no bite. Sam’s seen it a hundred times before. He takes off his kevlar as Sam stands. “There are no prisoners with Hydra. Just order. And order only comes from pain. You ready for yours?”

As if Sam hasn’t already gone through so much pain. As if Sam didn’t serve, didn’t know all about order. Also as if he thinks Sam wants to listen to his bullshit any longer than it takes to say ‘I’m surrendering’. “Man, shut the hell up.”

Rumlow lunges forward and Sam, pride and anger and all sorts of volatile-when-mixed feelings welling in him, meets the assclown half way.

* * *

Asset wakes immediately, standing and pulling out his gun without thinking. He shoots Excessively American Target, who is trying to replace the chip once more. The bullet hits this time, thank Zola. Excessively American Target goes down, the bullet in his biceps femoris the clear culprit.

Excessively American Target grunts but doesn’t waste time; he stands and starts jumping up to the walkway. Asset shoots at his hands to get him to fall but Excessively American Target is good at dodging.

Asset stumbles over the metal that holds the glass floor together, clutching his flesh arm close. Every move he makes shoots pain up and down the arm. Asset really needs another Arm.

Excessively American Target rolls onto the walkway, immediately going to the console. Asset cannot see what he’s doing or get up there in this state; he _can_ hear a woman say, “thirty seconds, Cap!” Voice analysis: distressed, urgent. She must be on Excessively American Target’s side, and therefore must be a target as well. She will be Shrill Target.

Asset moves so he can see, and catches sight of what he absolutely cannot let happen about to happen. Excessively American Target has the other chip in his hand, almost to the console. Asset shoots Excessively American Target in the latissimus dorsi. Excessively American Target goes down again, chip successfully not replaced.

Pride fills Asset. Excessively American Target is down, so he can take his time getting to him.

The guns on the side of the helicarrier power up, a roaring buzz just under the surface. The cursed Traitor screams, _fuck!_ Yeah, well, shut the fuck up, Traitor.

Out of the corner of Asset’s eye, he sees Excessively American Target move. Asset whips his head around, starts to move faster -- he’s not close enough to get there in time, he took his damn time and now Excessively American Target is going to ruin everything -- but he’s too late. The guns power down, which can only mean that Excessively American Target has put the chip in.

“Okay, Cap, get out of there,” Shrill Target says. Voice analysis: concerned.

The helicarriers move, and Asset falls, unable to keep his balance.

“Fire now,” Excessively American Target says lowly. Voice analysis: Asset cannot get a read.

“But Steve -- “ Voice analysis: still concerned. Crying imminent.

“Do it! Do it now!” Voice analysis: determined. Excessively American Target stands, shaky and slow. He relies heavily on the railing.

The whole helicarrier shakes as the other two aim for it; fire and bullets and glass spray everywhere. With every hit, more and more debris falls. A rafter from the ceiling breaks off and hits Asset, pinning both arms and legs and everything but his shoulders and head.

Asset knows with sudden, complete and total clarity that he will die here. Hydra will have no reason to get him. He failed the mission. An incomplete mission is better than a failed mission, and Asset just failed. All targets still alive, the helicarriers turned against one another. Asset malfunctioned too much and now he’s just as useless as these carriers.

Asset does not feel emotions. But he thinks if he did, if he were human, he would be crying right now. Heat presses against his eyes, moisture pooling. He blinks but it doesn’t help. _Asset isn’t supposed to cry_ , he thinks hysterically. _Why is Asset crying!_ The Traitor is sobbing, crying, _Steve, Steve, Steve. No, no, no, no, no._ Asset hates that goddamn Traitor.

Excessively American Target drops down from the walkways hard, and Asset watches, helpless to do anything but. He can’t move; he’s dead anyway. But then Excessively American Target stumbles towards him, shield on arm.

Asset puts at much effort as he can into lifting the rafter off. Excessively American Target doesn’t come too close but still he tries to help. Asset has shot him three times and stabbed him once yet he is trying to help Asset get free. Asset cannot understand this target. He doesn’t want to fight, but fights as well as Asset. He hurt Asset but is helping now.

Excessively American Target falls backwards as the carrier jolts, and Asset’s throat tightens. He does not want to die here. If Excessively American Target doesn’t help him, he’ll drown with the carriers, burn to death, get crushed.

Thank Zola, Excessively American Target rights himself and comes back to help.

* * *

They fight, not pulling punches. Sam’s no supersoldier but neither is Rumlow. Despite Sam having not fought like this in a while and Rumlow being on the damn STRIKE team, Sam holds his own. He’s no wilting wallflower, either. Rumlow isn’t about to take him out without one hell of a fight.

It goes on for a while, the upper hand shifting every minute.

Rumlow eventually throws him over a glass desk, shouting, “You’re out of your depth, kid.”

Who exactly is he calling a kid? Sam is a grown ass man and a hell of a lot more mature, evidently. He’s got the good sense not to be a Nazi, at least.

Sam pants, trying not to get glass in his skin. He stares at Rumlow, trying to think of something witty to say. Then he notices the giant white number on gray metal outside the window. A helicarrier, he notes calmly. Then he thinks, _oh shit!_ and rolls out of the way.

Rumlow turns and gets an eyeful of the carrier. He dodges, too, but not as well as Sam. Sam runs as fast as his legs will take him down the hall, heart pounding in his ears. He can’t hear anything over it, not his breathing or the sounds of Rumlow getting crushed by debris.

“Please tell me you got that chopper in the air!” He screams.

Natasha shouts back, “Sam, where are you!”

More chunks of concrete fall, just at his feet, knocking him off balance. He has to slide to narrowly avoid getting crushed. “Forty-first floor! Northwest corner!”

“Hold on and stay where you are!”

“Not an option!”

The floor under his feet cracks into hundreds of pieces, becoming unstable in seconds. He has no choice but to jump through a window with nowhere to land -- his worst fucking nightmare relived twice in the same day.

Having air rushing around him feels even worse this time, without the familiar weight of his jetpack. The chopper is there, though, a few floors down but close enough. It’s sideways; he falls through the open door and slams into the door on the other side. It goes flying, and he almost goes with it. Thank god Natasha is there, gripping his arm and pulling him into a hug as soon as she can.

“Forty-first floor,” he complains loudly into her hair. “Forty-first!”

“Not like they put the floor numbers on the outside of the building,” Nick counters. Well damn. Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that. They fly under the belly of a helicarrier.

“Hill! Where’s Steve, you gotta location on Rogers?”

* * *

Asset notices the helicopter but pays it no mind. He has to get free. There’s nothing more important in this moment than getting free.

Excessively American Target strains himself to lift the rafter. Asset scoots down to assure himself he’s not immobile, then reaches up with the Arm and pulls himself out. As soon as Asset has both arms and one leg out, Excessively American Target drops the rafter with a loud clang.

“You know me,” he pants out. Voice analysis: rough, desperate.

Asset is getting sick and fucking tired of this. The Traitor won’t stop saying Excessively American Target’s name and crying. _Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, oh god, Stevie._ Excessively American Target called him ‘Buck’ earlier. Asset doesn’t know that name and he hates the Traitor and he wants it all to end. He slams the knuckles of the Arm into Excessively American Target’s face, not caring where he hits. “No I don’t!”

They both fall over from the force and the way the helicarrier is sinking into the Triskelion. It takes them the same amount of time to stand; Excessively American Target pants louder and longer than Asset does. The Traitor pokes him and says, _count his breaths asshole!_ Asset ignores it.

“Bucky,” Excessively American Target gets out, voice deep from smoke inhalation but high with emotion all at once. Asset stares at him. Why is he calling Asset Bucky. _It’s your name, it’s_ my _name,_ the Traitor informs. Asset doesn’t trust the Traitor for goddamn second. “You’ve known me your whole life.”

No. No, that’s not true. _Yes it is,_ the Traitor insists. Asset throws the Arm across his chest and then swings it back, hitting Excessively American Target again. They stumble. Asset hates this, hates fighting on such unstable footing. An explosion rocks the helicarrier.

 _It’s only so unstable because of Asset,_ Handler’s voice spits. Asset knows, okay, he _knows_ it’s his fault.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” Asset’s programming heaves, twisting and writhing. Everything in him fights against that. No. No. No. “Your soulmate is Sam Wilson…. Bucky, he’s alive. He’s waiting for you. You fought him today.”

“Shut up!” Asset bellows. Asset doesn’t have a soulmate (he doesn’t have a soul). Excessively American Target is lying. Handler’s laugh rings in his ears, _you’re so stupid,_ and the Traitor sobs, _Sam?_.

Why won’t they all shut up! Just shut up!

Asset hits Excessively American Target so hard, he flips around, landing chest-down on the glass. Asset falls forward, catching himself on the fallen rafter.

Excessively American Target pulls off his helmet, bloody and panting. Asset looks at him -- he can’t look away -- and the Traitor sighs, _Steve._ Like Asset should know this sight better. Asset _does_ , he realizes with a twist to the gut. He knows those cheeks bruised and bloody and those lips split. He doesn’t know where he knows it from, but he does.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” Excessively American Target struggles. He drops the shield; it goes flying through a hole to the water below.

Handler’s voice squawks with delight, _kill him Asset! He’s unarmed! Now!_ The Traitor says the opposite -- _Steve you dumbass! I’m gonna kill you if you don’t fight me!_

“You’re my friend.”

Asset doesn’t have friends, idiot. He has Handler, Technicians, Doctor. And now the Traitor, too. But certainly no friends.

He roars, ducking and running bodily into Excessively American Target. Excessively American Target goes over his shoulder, and Asset holds him just above the bullet wound. He takes him to the edge, where a gaping hole has been shot in the side of the helicarrier. Asset throws him down, his head hanging off the side, and sits on top of him.

“You’re my mission,” he growls and slams the Arm’s metal fist into Excessively American Target’s face. Bones crack and shatter; blood seeps out, covering the metal fingers. “You’re! My! Mission!”

Asset has to catch himself on Excessively American Target’s chest, heaving. He gives himself only a second to catch his breath then raises his fist again.

“Then finish it,” Excessively American Target chokes out, staring Asset right in the eyes. Asset hasn’t been given so much eye contact in too long to remember. Everything about this mission is making his programming malfunction. “‘Cause I’m with ya to the end of the line.”

It hits him like a sack of bricks.

 _Oh Jesus Christ._ Asset knows that saying. He’s _said_ that, for crying out loud! To Exc-- to Steve. He’s said that to Steve, just after Mrs. Rogers died. The Traitor keens, deep and distressed and painful.

Oh god. Oh _god_. Steve. Stevie. What the fuck has he done. What has he done…. Asset doesn’t know if it’s him or the Traitor thinking it. He doesn’t know anything but overwhelming dread. What has he done. There are no words for what he’s done.

He blinks but tears are coming fast and sudden, and nothing is going to stop them once they start.

He has no time to cry -- the console comes crashing down right next to them. Asset manages to hold on, but Steve doesn’t.

Steve falls all the way down and Asset does nothing but watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventually I just copied Extensively American Target and didn't write it out ever again. I loved adding vocab like that but it got exhausting writing that out millions of times. Also I'm sorry y'all had to read it that many times


	5. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Fall of Hydra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: more TWS stuff, less violence, slightly stalker-y behavior, emotional responses to TWS, minor injuries, theft of personal items that are later returned, more Traitor/less Handler, SamBucky.

Stressed doesn’t begin to cover what Sam’s feeling right now.

It takes him a long time to get his breath back, keep it under control. Wind whips through the open doors of the helicopter and Natasha and Nick keep shouting at Maria. Sam can’t find another pair of headphones for a long few minutes, and when he does, his hands shake too much to grab them and put them on. Natasha has to help him. Her fingers lightly touch his eye, swelling already from all the punches he took.

He can’t help himself; he leans into the touch. Her hand slides down to his cheek, then to the back of his neck. She pulls him close again, so his head rests in the crook of her shoulder. He breathes shakily, lungs burning from all the air time he’s gotten today. His head is kind of spinning.

Natasha keeps shouting to Maria and Nick, turning her mouth away from his head. He doesn’t look up until she gasps, loud and shocked.

His head pops up just in time to see a body fall from the last helicarrier. They’re too far away to make out who it is but it doesn’t matter. Sam turns to the open door and throws up.

* * *

The helicopter sets down amid panic en masse. Sam and Nat jump out, legs shaky. A lot of the people running around don’t look at them; those that do recognize Natasha and probably assume the Avengers are on the scene.

(There _are_ two Avengers and both are at the scene but neither are much help right now.)

Everyone’s running away from the Potomac so it’s a struggle to get there. With Nat at his side, willing to shove sharp elbows into people’s sides to get them to move, they get there quicker than Sam would’ve thought.

There’s a lot of ambulances and fire trucks and police cars already on the shore, pulling bodies out of the water. A lot of them are Insight, only a few civilians. Sam can see at least three people who are alive, coughing and spluttering and crying. Most of the people being pulled out are dead.

Sam’s stomach is a stone inside him. Whoever fell out of the helicarrier, be it Steve or Bucky, fell straight into the water. None of the people there, laying in mostly zipped body bags or on stretchers or helping out, are as eye catching as the two super soldiers are.

Sam calls to a policeman, “How many you find so far?”

The policeman scrunches up his nose, shrugs with a huff. “We’re not exactly keeping count.”

“An estimate, then,” Natasha insists. The policeman stares at her. Sam’s not sure if he recognizes her or is leering at her.

“About fifteen,” he says reluctantly.

“Was Captain America one of them?”

Panic washes over the guy’s face. “Captain America?”

“Yeah, either him or the guy with the metal arm.”

“Oh, fuck. No, no he’s not one of them. I’ll tell everyone to look out for him, okay? Him or the metal arm guy.” He runs off to get the chief.

The police chief seems much more interested in talking to Sam and Natasha, who he definitely recognizes. He explains where they’ve looked, how they have people on the water and how divers are already coming. The fourteen people they’ve pulled out have either crawled out, been seen, or floated to the shore.

“Would either of you be interested in helping?”

Sam and Nat share a look. Yeah, they want to help.

* * *

Steve is missing for two hours. He’s finally found on the shore by some teenagers who first call the police and second take selfies. Sam spends those two hours trying to get his land legs and running around with Natasha trying not to panic.

Still, when they get told that Captain America is just on the other side of the shore, Sam hops into the boat next to the stretcher and tries to push any and all seasickness away.

Finding Steve isn’t difficult -- the teens are still there -- but looking at him is hard. Bucky beat his face in. Bucky also shot him and stabbed him and caused a shitload of internal bleeding. Bucky is missing. Every news site in the ten state area has APBs running. Sam knows this because on the DC news station they play in the hospital, the presenter is talking about how no one really knows where the Winter Soldier went. They do know he almost killed Captain America, and so he has become the world’s top threat (apparently almost killing Captain America is where they’ve set the bar). Just about the whole world is being told to watch out for the Winter Soldier.

The whole world is also looking at the selfies of Steve’s face. Those damn teens put them online immediately and set off a panic. If this guy can do that to Captain Goddamn America, what could he do to defenseless, everyday, normal people? Sam wants them to stop asking. He knows what that guy will do to your Average Joe -- Sam’s got the internal and external bruising to show for it. The shade his skin is turning on the shoulder where he landed hard is enough to make Sam want to get some serum. He can’t really feel it now but it’s gonna hurt like holy hell later.

Sam and Natasha are Steve’s next of kin. The doctors and nurses here are nosy as all hell and can’t be trusted not to sneak pictures. Sam and Nat have to pretend they’re just his close friends.

Tony sends in guards for the room, two in front of the door and two in front of every exit off the floor that isn’t a window.

Steve lays passed out in bed, unaware of anything happening around him. Sam turns on Troubleman, since it’s their collective favorite and it makes him happy to remember dancing around the living room to it.

Natasha stays for only a little while, explaining when she leaves that she has a favor to call in. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says and kisses him in the bathroom. The kiss is deep, emotional and the kind of end-of-the-world kiss they’ve had one too many times. That doesn’t stop him from sticking his tongue down her throat and then crying on her shoulder.

He’s had a very eventful, traumatic day, alright? Two falls and one fake out, two of those happening at the hands of his assassin soulmate who almost killed his boyfriend. He’s gone through the ringer and if he wants to cry on his wife’s shoulder, he will.

She has to go too soon for Sam’s liking but he’s used to her slipping in and out by now. She’ll be back. She said so, and he trusts her implicitly.

When Steve wakes up, it’s just Sam there. Steve mumbles, “On your left,” their morning jog joke that Sam has not missed hearing.

Sam groans but there’s a smile on his face. Relief fills him to the brim -- Steve’s awake. There’d been a chance Bucky had beaten him into a coma.

Sam has felt anxious and sick since Natasha called and said Nick died. Today hasn't helped one bit.

Maybe he should be happy he met his soulmate. Maybe he should be happy everyone lived. But he can’t make the bad feelings go away like the flip of a switch. He can’t hide this shit like Steve and Natasha can.

“Troubleman?” Steve rasps.

Sam laughs a little hysterically. He doesn’t know why. Steve wasn’t trying to be funny. “Yeah. Yeah, I thought you might like something familiar to wake up to.”

Steve’s face crumples, and a pained noise slips from between his lips.

All the air in Sam’s lungs comes out in a half-huff, half-sob. He stands, moves closer to the bed, and presses his forehead to Steve’s. Steve drags a hand up, cradles the side of his face.

“ _Sam_.”

* * *

Asset doesn’t run away from the body on the shore but he sure as shit hurries. The streets of DC are a cacophony of noises, so it’s easy to blend in, easy to jump into the window of a store that somebody else already broke into and steal some clothes. He steals a backpack and some trash bags, along with the clothes. Gloves too.

He uses the bathroom to change, shoving his gear into a trash bag and putting the trash bag in the backpack. The clothes are dark, long sleeved and sturdy. The gloves go on and suddenly he looks human.

Emotions and memories of people without faces or names or voices keep assaulting him. A woman with dark hair, a little girl who looks just like him, a blonde woman, a group of men, all of whom Traitor wants desperately to talk to. Lots of women, of all shapes and sizes. Piggy little Zola. Natalia, with hair a shade brighter and teeth a shade sharper. Most of all, he keeps hearing Steve call him Bucky, but he doesn’t feel like a Bucky. He feels like an Asset.

Steve Rogers makes Asset’s head hurt. Natalia Romanova -- Natasha Romanoff-Wilson, now -- has the same effect. He remembers two versions of Steve, little and big. Natalia reminds him too much of the KGB, though honestly, he doesn’t recall nearly as much about her as Steve.

Asset _has_ to find out more about his targets, though, it’s the only thing he can think about and not have an absolute break down over. Which means that he’s got only one person to look into -- Sam Wilson. His soulmate. Or at least, the guy Steve said is his soulmate.

Asset has no resources and nowhere to go, unless he counts Sam Wilson’s house. Which he does, incidentally.

He remembers from briefing that it’s just outside DC, in the suburbs. Takes a while to walk to, but he fixed his shoulder in the bathroom so he can handle it. Not very well protected and, in the case of a fight being brought home, there’s lots of civilians who could become casualties. Asset feels exposed in his civilian clothes. He has no body armor on and it’s making him twitch. The voice of Traitor tells him, _there’s no high buildings so no snipers unless they’re really stupid enough to shoot through a first floor window. Make yourself blend in. There’s no one out but it’s fine. Tilt your chin up, swing your hips. You act like you belong and no one will question it._

He does what Traitor says just to see if it’ll work. Handler is silent, so Asset has no one but Traitor. Asset may have to rename Traitor because Traitor is right. No one’s out, but those that peek out their windows at him don’t seem phased. He’s got smoke residue on his face and his hair is a mess. He looks like any other person who left their car in the city and is trying to get home.

The closer he gets to Sam Wilson’s house, the more eyes he feels. Traitor tells him not to be obvious when he looks around, so Asset tries to be subtle. An older woman is staring right at him from across the street and two houses down. Through a screen door, three children are looking around, only the mid-sized child looking at him. Asset quickly looks away and reaches into his pocket for the lock picking kit.

It’s quick work getting inside. Asset doesn’t look around, acts as human as possible. Asset doesn’t feel human. Asset doesn’t feel much of anything except overwhelming uncertainty. He shakes his head and steps in, closing the door behind him.

The house has blue walls, art hung up sporadically, furniture that looks soft. Traitor wants him to sit on the couch. Asset says no. He touches nothing and goes upstairs, to where he assumes the bedroom is. The first door is a bathroom; he’ll come back, he decides when a quick look reveals nothing of interest. Sam Wilson is at the hospital and won’t be coming back anytime soon. There’s time.

The next room is a closet, that has extra towels and blankets in it. For some reason, there’s a bucket full of boxes of light bulbs. There’s a clear tub with papers in it. Asset takes it down and flips through, taking in the information. Birth certificate, car registry, wedding record.  _ Wedding record? Dammit, that’s right, Sam’s married! To Natalia! _ Traitor growls, demanding Asset look back at that one.

_Samuel T. Wilson, aged 34, married Natasha A. Romanoff, aged 28, on this day, the 11th of November in 2012._

There’s more information, like the name of Sam’s mother, where the wedding happened, names of witnesses. Nick Fury is one of the witnesses. Asset wonders if he should maybe feel bad. Natalia had listed him as her father. Asset sort of remembers shooting him -- a flash of setting up his rifle, a second of being chased; he remembers seeing Steve best. Despite what he remembers, he knows he shot and killed Nick Fury. _Traitor, what do people do when they feel bad about doing something?_

 _They say sorry._ Voice analysis: Traitor thinks this should be obvious.

 _I’ll leave a note_ , he decides.

_Do you really want them to know you were here? I thought the point was that they didn’t know you stopped by._

_Uncertain,_ he replies, and takes the paper. Traitor sighs and starts mumbling about how Sam Wilson isn’t supposed to be married.

Asset ignores it as he’s ignored the rest of the mumbling and puts the tub back. The bedroom is next, walls a lighter blue than downstairs. The art here is different, more stylized. _Steve’s_ , Traitor tells him proudly. Asset looks. They’re all signed Steven G. Rogers. Huh. Asset hadn’t been told Steve is an artist.

Traitor says, _what? You didn’t know Steve’s an artist?_

Asset shrugs, not responding. Why talk when there are bedside tables to look through. The one on the left has a notebook with lots of different words in it. He recognizes very few. Still, he memorizes what he sees and puts it back. Next is a gun, which he steals. Sticks of gum. A pen. Nail clippers. A charger of some sort. A wrist guard. Asset is uninterested. The right bedside table has a book in the drawer -- _Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone_ . The clock on the table is digital, with an alarm set for six am. Traitor groans at that. Asset doesn’t find much else -- a paper that says, _call mom!_ , a jewelry box with a ring that looks masculine and dated.

Asset bites his cheek. Is this all there is? He’s trying to get information. All he knows about Sam Wilson is that he reads children’s books, wakes up early, and forgets to call his mother. He sits on the bed with a huff, sinking down farther than he expected. Okay, Asset amends, Sam Wilson likes soft furniture.

There’s another bathroom, he sees. He gets to his feet and steps inside. Asset finds what he expects -- makeup and shaving kits, toilet paper, q-tips, tweezers, soaps, shampoos, conditioners. Oddly, there are two shaving kits. One is modern, with an electric razor. One is dated, with a straight blade. Asset doesn’t know why Sam Wilson would have two -- does Natalia need one? He checks, and no, there are more feminine-appearing razors in the shower. He can’t figure out why there’d be three different types of razors, so he files the information for later inspection.

He moves back to the bedroom, finds a bookshelf. Most of the books are about the Air Force, the military, real people and events. Asset thinks so, at least. Traitor doesn’t know what 9/11 is, either. Some of the books are about war; the Second World War, the Cold War, the War on Drugs, the War in Afghanistan. Asset steals the ones that seem decade specific, though there are only three -- the 1940s, the 1980s, and 1990s. Asset will have to find out about the other decades on his own.

 _I’m here,_ Traitor protests. Asset hums but doesn’t respond.

He moves to the closet next, finding three sets of clothes. The first set is mostly athletic t-shirts and plaid button-ups, khakis and jeans, loafers and combat boots. Asset doesn’t like the clothes. The next set is half dresses, half t-shirt/jean outfits, with many pairs of heels in all colors. He recognizes the use of these clothes; having this many makes for better opportunities. Natalia can go anywhere and be anyone in these clothes. The last set is a mix of professional and unprofessional clothes; t-shirts with images on them and button-ups that are only one color, jeans and khakis, athletic shoes and loafers and one pair of boots that Asset approves of. Asset also wonders why the two masculine sets of clothes aren’t together; upon looking, he sees that the shirts similar enough in size. The pants, however, are very different -- the first set has a much smaller waist compared to the third set.

Are there three people living here? Traitor makes a noise that Asset takes to mean he doesn’t know.

Asset steals a shirt from each set. He is uncertain what size he is so he picks the biggest shirts. He also steals some socks. They’ll be hidden by his boots so he picks the ones with bright colors.

Asset moves on from the room. There’s a guest bedroom that has been turned into an office; it holds two desks and a canvas. One desk has lots of papers and folders on it; upon a closer look, he finds case files of veterans. Sam Wilson works at Veteran’s Affairs. This must be his desk. He looks through the drawers and finds lots of little notes, with arrows and scribbles. There are a few more books, this time about PTSD and other mental illnesses. Asset doesn’t take those -- instead he steals a blank piece of paper and writes down the titles and authors. Asset does steal a note that Sam Wilson and Natalia wrote to each other.

 _Lookin good, handsome_  
_Right back at ya, baby_  
_You flirt._  
_You love it_ _  
_ I do :)

Asset isn’t sure why he takes the note. Traitor starts to say something but Asset tunes him out.

The other desk has an armory that Asset passes over for the moment. The desk has almost nothing on it, just stray pencils and post its that have handwriting messy enough that Asset can’t read. The drawers are empty. He moves to the armory, then. There’s an impressive range of pistols and rifles, lots of knives and other weapons Asset doesn’t recognize but is sure he knows how to handle. He already has the gun from the bedside table, but that’s not enough. He takes three more weapons, one knife, one pistol, and one rifle with a stand and scope. He also takes several magazines of ammo. They go in a second trash bag with the first gun; his backpack is filling up.

He moves onto the canvas then, and doesn’t find much. There’s a face on the canvas, half-drawn. Traitor says it’s the face of Sarah Rogers. Asset reaches out, holds his hand just above the paper. He wants to touch it but an old instinct says he’ll smudge it. Asset doesn’t want to smudge it; he takes his hand away. There are a few more canvases behind the easel the first sits on, leaning up against the wall. One is Natalia, nude from the waist up. Asset notes that the signature at the bottom is the same as the ones in the bedroom -- Steven G. Rogers. Steve has seen Natalia nude? This likeness is very accurate, from what he remembers of Natalia. But Natalia is married to Sam Wilson. Why has Steve seen Natalia nude?

Later, he decides. He’ll think on it later. Though it does point to…. Nevermind.

The second canvas has less nudity but more emotion. It’s Sam Wilson, dancing, caught mid-movement and smiling so wide Asset yearns to see it in real life. Asset doesn’t know much about dancing but Sam Wilson makes it look enjoyable. Asset would like to join him, maybe. Traitor sighs dreamily and makes a noise of agreement.

The third and last canvas on the floor is of Asset. _No, that’s me,_ Traitor rebukes. _See the arm? Not metal. That’s me._

Asset doesn’t really care if it’s him or Traitor. He cares that he never see it again. He turns it around and sets it back against the wall. Something inside him wants him to destroy it, but Traitor hates the idea.

Fine, fine, Asset will leave it.

He moves downstairs again, ignores the couch. There’s a television on a stand, and stacks of discs in the space below it. He looks through them but doesn’t recognize any. Traitor does, oohing and ahhing over _Snow White and The Seven Dwarves, King Kong, Gone With The Wind,_ and _Wizard of Oz_ . Traitor uses Asset’s hands to snag _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ and shove it in his backpack. Asset has no need for the disc, but Traitor insists. Asset lets it go.

He moves on to the vinyls, which stand upright in a cardboard box. Marvin Gaye, Glen Miller, Best of Motown, Jackson 5, Soundgarden, Billie Holiday, TLC, Metallica, Queen. Traitor says he only knows Glen Miller and Billie Holiday. Asset doesn’t know any of them. He leaves them in the box.

Garage is next. A 2015 Chevrolet Impala in Air Force navy blue sits there, surrounded on all sides by a plethora of random things. There’s a tall box that used to hold the bookshelf he saw in the bedroom; a dartboard and several darts bundled together by a hair tie; trash bags tied off at the top; metal chairs; a bike.

Maybe some other time, Asset thinks, perhaps tired. He can go on forever if need be but going through the garage will take energy he doesn’t want to expend. What’s he going to find, anyway? Some book of secrets that tell him everything he needs to know about Sam Wilson?

Whatever. He’s going to the kitchen now; maybe something interesting will be in there.

The kitchen isn’t small. Someone who lives in this house likes to cook. There are a few cookbooks, one specifically about deserts, while the other two are for meals. He finds a drawer of printed recipes from “AllRecipes” and “Pinterest”. Asset leaves them be.

In another drawer are utensils, neatly separated and clean. Asset takes one of each, though he isn’t sure why. Traitor doesn’t know, either.

Batteries are in the next drawer, along with a hammer, nails, tacks, pins, sewing supplies, screws, and a screwdriver. They don’t have enough, he thinks. One screwdriver for the whole house? That doesn’t sound right.

He moves on. The cabinets above the stove have oils and spices in them. The ones next to the sink have plates and bowls. Cups get an entire cabinet; none of them match. Some are mugs, some are wine glasses. There are a few shot glasses, all with names of locations on them. Sam Wilson has gotten around, if he bought these. They could be presents given to him, though. Asset is uncertain how to tell and decides to just move on.

The other cabinets have non-perishable foods and base ingredients like flour, sugar, baking soda. The pantry is full of food that doesn’t need to be refrigerated. Asset takes a box of granola bars and a box of soft things called ‘Twinkies’. They go in his backpack.

The fridge has leftovers and all sorts of food. Traitor uses Asset’s body again to lick his lips. Asset doesn’t like the smell or the cold. Traitor wants to pull out the strawberries but Asset closes the door and moves out of the kitchen.

He finds himself back in the living room. There are framed pictures he’d taken note of but hadn’t looked at.

The first he finds is Sam Wilson as child, hugging a pregnant woman. A man stood by his other side. These must be Sam Wilson’s parents, then.

It's a nice picture but it makes Asset’s chest hurt. Traitor reaches out with Asset’s hands and takes it. Is this what we're doing, he thinks. Traitor sure likes taking things, but Asset can't talk. He’s been taking things, too.

He resolves to himself that he won't take any more pictures. But then he sees the next one, of Natalia and a blonde man Asset doesn't recognize. Natalia looks very different from what he last saw of her. Shorter hair, more layers of clothes that don't particularly match. Traitor says, _she's a spook._

_A spook?_

_Yeah, a real dog biscuit._

Traitor makes no sense. Most things he says are foreign to Asset, but this, especially, confuses Asset. He doesn't ask again.

Asset doesn't take that picture of Natalia but he does take the next one. She wears a white dress with lace and has hair so long it goes to her back. Sam Wilson stands next to her, wearing Air Force blues. Traitor uses Asset’s hands again to steal that picture and tells Asset, _now there's a drooly_.

Asset takes back his hands and shoves them in the pockets of the jeans he's wearing. No more stealing. It's already going to be obvious someone was here, no need to make it look like a robbery.

There's another picture of Sam Wilson and Natalia’s wedding, this time with Natalia standing between Steve and Sam Wilson. Steve wears army beige. It's a nice picture. Asset can't help but notice that all three are smiling. Sam Wilson has tears in his eyes, the kind Traitor says are the good kind. Asset hadn't known there's more than one type of crying. The only type he is familiar with is crying because of pain. Surely their wedding wasn’t painful. Natalia looks so happy, grinning at the photographer. Steve is happy, too, body looser than Asset had seen it. Traitor doesn’t know who to look at -- Asset feels the same way.

Asset takes it before Traitor can even think to.

There are more pictures, of Sam Wilson in the Air Force, growing up, with his siblings. There is one picture of Steve, sitting in a photo booth with Traitor. They're both young, no lines or pain on their faces. Traitor wants it. Asset doesn't want to look at it.

He doesn't take any more pictures. Traitor tells him to turn around and shove them all in his bag.

Asset says no but somehow finds himself taking a picture of Sam Wilson wearing a black shirt with a red hourglass on the front.

He isn't sure why he takes the pictures. They don't tell him much of anything about Sam Wilson.

Now that he thinks about it...why did he come here? The mission is over. Why does he need to find out about his targets?

Traitor says, _I wanna know about them, isn’t that reason enough?_ But...Asset doesn’t trust Traitor. Did he really come here on Traitor’s word? Somehow it’s always someone else telling him where to go, what to do. Traitor has used his hands to do things today and Asset has just let it happen.

He drags his flesh hand through his hair, which he notices immediately is dusty and smoky and greasy. Traitor hates it, kicks up a fuss. Asset, coincidentally, prefers his hair this way. _No, Traitor, it’s not because of you._ Except it really is.

Asset decides then he must leave. He has no reason to be here and though he didn’t check the whole house, it doesn’t matter. He’s stolen from his targets, he’s gleaned ultimately useless information, and now he has to go.

Would it be best to go out the front or the back? Those children could still be looking. The old woman will definitely notice and tell the occupants of the house that someone broke in. Dammit, why did he come here?

The door clicks as a key turns in the lock. Asset’s programming screeches to a halt. Handler, who has been silent this whole time, shouts, _kill them!_

Asset doesn’t listen. He doesn’t hide -- it’s obvious he’s been here and even unprotected as he is, he’s not easily taken down. Unless you’re Steve, that is.

Statistical probability says it’s either Sam Wilson or Natalia. Steve is still in the hospital; Asset broke several bones in Steve’s face, and no one, not even a supersoldier can walk away from their fight perfectly fine. Asset himself is in need of repair. _Clearly_ , he thinks. There’s a threat and all he’s thinking about is Steve Rogers. He forces his attention back to the present.

It’s Natalia who steps through the door, Natalia who immediately crouches down to fight.

Handler points out a way to kill her -- he’s nearer the kitchen, where there are knives. He could fight hand to hand to subdue her long enough for him to reach a knife or get one of the guns out of his bag. Knife is better. Guns are loud, will definitely catch attention even if all the police in the area are at the Potomac. Then it’s just a matter of getting information out her -- where is Steve Rogers -- and slitting her throat once he has it. Sam Wilson will come home to find her body.

Traitor hates this idea. Asset hates Traitor but dammit, he’s right in this case. Asset can’t kill Natalia and he can’t listen to Handler, either. Handler wants to know where Steve is? Steve’s at Medstar Washington Hospital Center in Washington DC, room 310. The mission is no more, so Asset doesn’t need to kill him. Asset has no need to find and kill Steve. Handler must think the mission is still going. At least Traitor knows it’s over.

 _I don’t give a damn about any of that_ , Traitor says, _I care about Sam! God, he’s already with Steve in the hospital, you want him to come home to his wife lying dead on the floor? How loony are you?_

 _I’m not loony,_ he spits at Traitor. To Natalia, he says nothing, just raises his hands in a gesture of peace.

She straightens out slowly, asks, “You surrendering?”

“No.”

“Why are you here, Yasha?”

“Who the hell is Yasha?”

Natalia rolls her eyes. “ _You_ are Yasha. It’s a nickname. Short for James.”

“James?” Traitor says, _James Buchanan Barnes, just like Steve said. Bucky. Yasha. They’re nicknames._

Natalia nods. “Your name is James.” Asset isn’t sure if he likes that name but has no time to decide. “I’m gonna ask again -- why are you here?”

Traitor takes over his tongue and says, “I didn’t know where else to go.”  One of these days, Asset is gonna fucking smother Traitor. He corrects, “I required more information about my targets.”

“Hmm.” Natalia takes him in, looks right through him. “Your mission should be over. Hydra fell. You’re free.”

Asset is uncertain what to say. “Yes.”

“So you’re here for Sam.”

“Yes.” Let’s go with that.

“What’s in the bag?”

It doesn’t sound like an order, but Asset answers anyway, “Weapons.” He doesn’t want to say anything about the other things he took. He doesn’t want her to know.

She glances at the wall, sees the missing frames. “Uh-huh. Yours or did you find them in my armory?”

“Yours. Sorry.” A flicker of surprise shows on her features but she shuts it down quickly; Traitor hums.  _ No wonder Sam married her.  _ Asset isn’t sure what he means and doesn’t ask. “What?” he snaps. Why is she surprised about him apologizing.

She scoffs but it doesn’t sound mean. “Nothing. Apology accepted. You find everything you need?”

Asset wants to say yes and get the hell out. But the truth is, he hasn’t. He says, “No.”

Natalia smirks, shifting her weight on the balls of her feet. She sets her bag down on the couch and beckons him towards the other bookshelf that Asset hadn’t looked through yet. There are less normal books and more photo albums on this one.

“I’m gonna go get something to eat. These,” she points to all but one of the photo albums, “have Sam in them. This one,” she points to the last one, “is Steve and I’s combined. If you want to know more about Sam, look in those.”

Then she moves to the kitchen and studiously ignores him. Asset is aware she’s watching him closely -- it’s been only four point seven hours since the last helicarrier went down, and he hasn’t become less of a threat in that time. But he appreciates her pretending.

He slides the first album out and stands with his back to the corner where the walls meet. The first page has no pictures, just cursive writing that says, _Samuel Thomas Wilson, born September 23, 1978. Weight: 7.7 lbs. Length: 19.1 cm._ Below that, it says, _YEAR ONE._

Asset turns the next page. There’s three pictures on this page -- one titled “Darlene holding Sam for the first time”, one titled “Paul holding Sam for the first time”, and one titled “Sam aged 1 hour 22 mins”. The ones with Darlene and Paul don’t show much of Sam Wilson. In them, Asset takes note of his parents’ expressions. Overjoyed and smiling. The one of just Sam Wilson shows him lying in a clear bassinet, wrapped up in a blanket and with a hat on his head. He’s asleep, eyes shut peacefully.

Traitor wants desperately to steal the book and run. _Aww,_ he coos, _look at ‘im. So small. God, do you remember Becca? She was tiny compared to Sam. S’a toss up who was cuter, but she was definitely smaller._

Asset does not remember Becca. Traitor shows him a flash of the little girl with dark hair skipping rope. His stomach twists and he hurriedly turns to the next page.

Two pictures, this time. One titled “Sam coming home” and one titled “Darlene breastfeeding Sam”. In the first, Sam Wilson is in some sort of carrier than neither Asset nor Traitor recognize. The carrier sits on a couch and Darlene sits next to him. Sam Wilson is awake but not crying, looking off to the side. Assessment: curious. In the second picture, Sam Wilson is almost asleep, or perhaps just enjoying the moment. His eyes are half-lidded. Darlene is smiling down at him with such emotion that Asset has to turn the page again.

He remembers a woman looking at him like that. He doesn’t know who she is but it’s like a knife to the gut. _Mom,_ Traitor says softly. _Mom looked at us like that._ Asset ignores the way his throat tightens.

He looks through the rest of the pictures. Most of them are of Sam Wilson staring at things and sleeping. Eventually Sam Wilson sits up on his own. His hair doesn’t grow much but he still pulls at it in some pictures. His clothes are dated, and Traitor makes comments about them every time.  _ Corduroy? Really? _ Traitor has lots of opinions about the smallest things, Asset notes. Asset doesn’t have many opinions.

He goes through all the albums there, watching Sam Wilson grow up. Report cards appear alongside the pictures, drawings and notes. Asset carefully examines each new item, stores them away. Natalia stands in the kitchen and eats, watches him.

When he finishes looking at the last one, he puts it back carefully and looks her way.

“What?” she asks, stepping into the living room. “You can’t have those."

Traitor whines, _why not_. Asset rolls his eyes at Traitor and tells Natalia, “Okay.”

“Okay. You need anything else?”

Asset says nothing.

She bites her lip and sighs. There are papers on the kitchen table; she takes one and writes something down on it. Then she opens a drawer in the kitchen and moves items around until she finds what she was looking for. When she hands him the items, he takes them without hesitance. A piece of paper and a hair tie.

“Do you know how to put your hair up?” He shakes his head. She reaches out a hand and curls her fingers expectantly twice. He hands her the hair tie. She demonstrates, three times. The last demonstration shows him how to make his hair into a bun. Asset takes the hair tie back. “That’s my number. Let me know if you need any help.”

“Help,” he repeats, uncertain of what she means and why she’s doing this.

“Yeah.” Her demeanor is soft when she says, “Yasha, I know -- well, I know a lot. I know what you’re going through. I’m on your side. I don’t know where you’re going from here but as long as you don’t go killing innocent people, it doesn’t really matter.” She reaches out and presses a hand to his chest. Asset flinches but she’s not pushing him or hurting him. Her hand just lays there. “Like I said -- call me if you need help.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Traitor takes over, rustily promising, “I will.”

Natalia smiles, perhaps genuinely. Traitor sighs dreamily. “Good. Now get out of here before you’re caught.”

Asset nods. She moves back and lets him move to the door. He opens it -- the children are no longer sitting by the door but the old woman is watching intently. Natalia presses a kiss to his cheek and gives the old woman a strong look. Curtains flutter around the old woman’s face as she turns away.

Asset starts walking away, disoriented. He has no idea what just happened.

The last thing Natalia says to him before closing the door is, “And stop stealing our shit!”

* * *

Steve doesn’t leave the hospital for three days.

Sam goes home day two and takes a shower. He’s so tired he doesn’t notice until he comes back four days after the fall of Hydra that shit’s missing around the house.

What really happens is that Sam and Steve come home, find Natasha not there, take quick showers and fall into bed. Sam takes his shower first and when Steve finishes up with his, he finds Sam already asleep over the covers.

Steve pulls the top blanket out from under him and they sleep under it, curled up together. Sam sleeps like a baby and in the morning, he doesn't really wake up until he's downed two and three quarter cups of coffee.

Then he sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table just this once, and stares at the wall. There are a few spots that look oddly empty. His eyes move on, going to the muted TV.

Then -- wait.

“Steve?” he shouts to the kitchen.

“What?”

“Where'd the pictures over the TV go?”

“I dunno!” Steve steps gingerly out of the kitchen. Sam watches him carefully; he's not supposed to be straining himself but with Steve, it's impossible to stop that from happening. Sam's waiting for him to do it so he can lecture Steve. “Maybe Nat took them?”

Sam shrugs; he hadn't thought of that. “Lemme call her. I left my phone upstairs.”

“I'll get it,” Steve says, giving Sam a quick kiss. Sam reciprocates of course; any chance to kiss Steve and also not go upstairs is a good one. His legs still ache like hell from all the hard landings. Steve is quick, so quick Sam only gets in two sips of his drink. The TV is still going on about Bucky. “Here. Put her on speakerphone, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He quickly pulls up her contact and calls, putting on speakerphone. It takes a few rings but she does pick up.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” She’s affectionate despite the background noise -- maybe because of it. He can’t imagine that she’d call him that where people could hear. To this day, Tony has no idea about the pet name.

“Hi, Nat.”

“Hey Nat!”

“‘Sup?”

Sam makes his voice casual, not accusing. Really, if she took the pictures, it’s no big deal. He just wants to know. “We were just wondering where the pictures over the TV went?”

Natasha answers flippantly, “Oh, Yasha took them.” Sam’s brain sort of...shorts out. Yasha is a name he hasn’t heard in a long time. He’s only heard part of the story, the part where he was Natasha’s first love and how he was forced to leave her. Still, he’d thought Yasha died. Nat had made it sound like he’d died,  or something. Apparently not.

Steve asks, confused, “Yasha?”

“That’s what I called Bucky when _I_ knew him. Yasha’s a nickname for James. Anyway, is that all you were asking about?”

“Bucky was here? When?” Steve demands. Sam is more concerned about Yasha being Bucky -- if Nat knew Bucky the whole time, how had she never put the pieces together? Or, if she did, why didn’t she tell him? -- but he wants to know the answer to this question, too.

Nat hums. Sometimes Sam loves her mysterious personality. Times like these, he’s not so fond of it. “Yeah, just after it all went down. He stole some stuff and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Did he try to fight you?”

“No, he just looked at your baby pictures and left. Didn’t really say anything. I wouldn’t worry about it. He has my number and he said he’d call if he needs anything. Right now, just focus on getting better, both of you.”

“You got hurt, too,” he reminds. She’d been _electrocuted_. Which, despite what she seems to think, is a big deal.

“I know that. I won’t be gone much longer. Dmitri’s pretty close to getting me what I came to Kiev for.”

“Kiev?” Sam asks, looking to Steve. Steve stares at the phone, face ashen.

“Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate. “I should be home soon. Don’t go looking without me,” she teases.

“Of course not.”

* * *

Sam spends the next six months following Bucky around, Steve at his side and Nat a phone call away.

He doesn’t like living on the road, isn’t too fond of following Bucky’s trail of dead bodies. But what else is there for him to do? He _could_ go back to the VA but once you’ve had a taste of the superhero life, it’s hard to get out. Plus it’s obvious that Bucky doesn’t want to be found.

Sam’s convinced he wants nothing to do with Sam, Steve, and Nat. Every sighting they’ve had so far has led to immediate running away on Bucky’s part. He’s certain, absolutely sure.

But then Bucky calls. He calls Nat, not Sam, and only does it once.

They’ve talked a lot about Bucky and decided that he gets to do pretty much whatever he wants and gets to control things such as phone calls. Sam has to let him talk for as long as he wants (within reason, of course).

Nat picks up and barely gets out, “Hello?” before he says, rushed, “Can I talk to Sam?”

Nat glances first at Steve, who sits on the couch on their shared floor in the Tower, then at Sam who’s trying to make the stupidly futuristic TV work. “Sure, here he is.”

She hands the phone to Sam; he takes it and holds it with his shoulder while he pokes at the TV. “Hello?”

“Sam?” Bucky rasps. Sam straightens immediately, opens his mouth to say something, but then Bucky continues, “Steve said…. Steve said you’re my soulmate.”

Sam blows out a breath, sits on his ass too close to the TV. “Yeah. I am.”

There’s a pause. He’s still rasping when he says, “I’m sorry I took your stuff.”

“It’s fine.” Sam can deal with a few missing things, honestly. He wants the pictures back but Tony has all the movies he could ever want so he doesn’t mind that. The shirt Bucky took and the socks would also be appreciated but he doubts he’ll ever see them again.

“You have really nice stuff,” Bucky explains. Finally his voice lightens, a teasing undercurrent buried deep. Or maybe he’s being sincere and he really thinks Sam’s got nice stuff.

Sam scoffs -- _he can’t be for real_ \-- and shakes his head. “I know I do. How’re those movies treating you?”

Bucky ignores him. “I can give it back. I know you’re in New York. I can...go to New York. To give it back.”

Sam bites his lip and looks to Steve and Nat, who are listening intently with their advanced hearing. Steve nods frantically, mouthing,  _ ‘say yes!’ _ Still looking their way, he says, “If you want to, sure.”

Bucky says nothing.

Sam adds, “I mean, where would we meet? How would you get here?” _Where are you,_ he wants to ask. He and Steve have already gone looking, at abandoned Hydra safe houses and burnt-to-the-ground Hydra bases. He’s glad for this break, even if it means Tony won’t stop breathing down his neck asking about his sex life. Laying in a bed, even one softer than he likes, is a lot better than sleeping upright in a quinjet.

“Rendezvous point.”

“I don’t know any rendezvous points, man. How about a Starbucks?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat,  high pitched and defensive. Sam decides he hates it instantly.

“Okay, Starbucks is a no.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“No,” Bucky groans. “No Starbucks. Rendezvous point.”

Sam drags a hand down his face, slumps a little. “Bucky. Dude. I don’t know where that is. You want to meet somewhere you gotta tell me where, alright?”

“Call me Bucky again,” he requests, voice gone quiet and raspy again. _Huh,_ Sam thinks. He can do that. He’s real good with names.

Sam doesn’t pause or hesitate, just asks, “Bucky, you gonna let me know where to meet you?”

Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes I will.”

“Cool. Um, anything else you-- I mean, you want my number? So you can call me instead of Nat.” Sam doesn’t give out his number to just anyone, but he can’t think of anyone he’d want to give it to more than Bucky. That kid in him that was in love with a blurred Name, a person with no qualities except that they were his soulmate, wants desperately to talk to Bucky. And it’s pretty obvious to him that Bucky wants to talk to him, too.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay, I’ll text you my number.”

“Okay.” Bucky doesn’t say anything else and Sam stays silent. Bucky’s breathing comes through clearly over the line; Sam feels himself relax, soothed by the sound. Bucky’s alive, breathing, awkwardly making conversation. “Um. I saw…. There’s a coupla TVs in a window. Nearby. They aren’t as big as your TV.”

Sam laughs through his nose. This is Bucky trying to talk to him. Odd comments about things he only knows ‘cause he broke into Sam’s house. “No, probably not. I paid a lot for that thing. Window TVs generally don’t cost too much.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” A thought strikes Sam, so he continues, “Now, you don’t have to tell me where you are, I won’t ask again, but it’s at least safe, right? And it’s got a roof?” It’s gotta have a roof, at the very least.

“Yes and yes. Safe and has a roof.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sam looks up to the ceiling, rocking back and forth a few times. This is so awkward.

Bucky adds, “Even has a bed. A nice one.”

Some distant part of Sam’s brain wonders what Bucky considers a nice bed. The larger part of his mind focuses only on the part where Bucky just said he has a nice bed. A nice bed. Choked, he asks, “Was that a come on?”

“A what?”

“A-- you know what, never mind.” Is he supposed to mention the bed? What does one say to that? Goddammit, Bucky.

“You’d like it,” Bucky says innocently. This asshole knows exactly what he’s doing, doesn’t he. Fuck. “It’s warm.”

Sam’s brain craps out. He breathes out heavily. _Married,_ he reminds himself, _I’m married. Don’t let your soulmate seduce you, Sam._ “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sam doesn’t want to do this, but -- “Anything else or can I…?”

“I’ll be in New York soon. And I’ll call you. So I can give you your stuff back.”

“Alrighty.”

Bucky replies in kind and then doesn’t hang up. Sam doesn’t want to hang up, and if Bucky doesn’t do it, they’re gonna be sitting here a while.

“Okay, man, time to go,” he coaxes. Steve gives him the stink eye; Sam rolls his eyes, fluttering his eyelashes so he says, _whatever._

“Wait,” Bucky blurts. And then doesn’t say anything. Sam silently drops his forehead onto his palm. This is painfully awkward, and he has to just ride it out. Ugh.

“Yeah?”

“Um. I. You’re.” He clears his throat and says, “You’re a hunk of heartbreak, Sam Wilson.”

And then he hangs up. Sam flops onto his back and wonders if what he thinks just happened really happened.

* * *

Bucky texts the next day, a simple, **hello**.

 **Hey** , Sam texts back, because if Bucky wants to talk, they’ll talk. Plus it’s four am and it’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

The bubbles pop up several times over the next few minutes, finally culminating in, **I have a question.**

**Sam: Go ahead.**

**Bucky: Where is my Name**

**Bucky: I mean what does it look like**

**Bucky: On you**

**Bucky: Your body**

Sam chuckles, **you want a pic?**

Another few minutes go by and then Bucky replies, **yes**.

Sam shuffles off to the bathroom, shifting Nat off his shoulder when he gets up. Once he’s in the bathroom, he closes the door and turns the lights on. He winces at what he sees in the mirror -- his abs look great but the bags under his eyes are huge. Plus these boxers aren’t very cute. He’s not about to send Bucky a mirror pic -- he’s not that type of guy -- but he still wants to look good.

Butterflies start flying around in his stomach, which is just ridiculous. He’s taking a picture of his wrist. That’s it. God, he’s acting like he’s sending nudes for the first time. Which he isn’t.

Shaking his head at himself, he pulls up the camera on his phone and takes a picture of his forearm, getting just a sliver of leg and foot. He sends it and heads back to bed. Nat blinks at him when he settles down, now acting as Steve’s little spoon. “Sexting Bucky?” she whispers.

Steve groans and closes his eyes tighter. “No sexting Bucky.”

“I didn’t, don’t worry. Go back to bed.”

“‘Kay,” Steve mumbles, snoring right after.

Nat smirks, soft and affectionate in the cover of early morning. “Bad dream?”

He shrugs. Riley turning into a duck and squawking at him isn’t that bad, even if it makes him a little sad. He misses Riley horribly. Talking to a stone is nothing like talking to the real person.

“C’mere,” she says, beckoning him with an arm raised up in the air for him to slide under. “Little spoon.” He turns over and backs up so she can wrap her arm around his waist and pull their hips together. Her nose, for once not cold, drags over a tendon in his throat. “Night, Pumpkin.”

“Night.”

He waits until she’s asleep to check his phone. Bucky’s texted back, **you’re heaven sent, Sam**.

* * *

Asset takes his time getting to New York. Slow and steady, the blonde woman used to say. (Traitor says she’s Steve’s mom, Sarah. Asset believes him but he can’t make himself say her name.)

It’s warmer, now, and his gloves are suspicious. _Luckily,_ Traitor says sarcastically, _you look like a creep. Everyone’s suspicious of you, anyway._

Asset tells him, _shut the fuck up._ Asset has found that he likes curse words. Traitor hates them. That makes Asset like them more.

He likes lots of things Traitor doesn’t. He likes things period. It’s a new feeling, one he enjoys. Traitor grumbles and makes comments but Asset knows Traitor is happy.

Asset is still thinking about renaming Traitor. And also maybe himself. He was James Buchanan Barnes, once. Bucky. Yasha. Asset isn’t a name. The issue is, he doesn’t feel like a James, a Bucky, or a Yasha. He feels like an Asset. But then, Asset is the name _they_ gave him. Handler only calls him Asset and tries to shut Traitor up. Asset doesn’t want the name they gave him anymore.

Maybe Sam Wilson can give him a new name.

Asset likes Sam Wilson. He trusts Sam Wilson to give him a good name. He trusts Sam Wilson, period. Sam Wilson didn’t try to kill him, just shoot him. And Sam Wilson is Asset’s soulmate -- he’s checked. The brown haired woman ( _Mom,_ Traitor reminds) always said his soulmate would be an amazing person, his best friend, a loyal companion. Asset wants those things, and he believes the brown haired woman ( _Mom_ ).

That’s why he’s willing to meet Sam Wilson in person again.

Plus, Asset has learned in the months since the helicarriers that he can be attracted to people. He can want them, close enough to touch and even closer than that. He can want people like Sam Wilson. And want he does.

Embarrassingly, Traitor likes to control his fingers and type out things like ‘I wanna hug you so bad’ and ‘I wish you weren’t married so I could -- ‘. Asset never sends _those_ texts. The tamer ones, he lets Traitor send. The ones like ‘I learned how to use Facebook and I searched for you. That picture of you and your mom is nice.’

He sends, **I’m in New York.** It’s an odd thing, to give away his location. But then, New York is a big place and he didn’t specify where exactly. It should be fine. He doubts that Sam Wilson would be able to pinpoint his exact location based off his text.

Sam Wilson texts back immediately, **Gotcha. Let me know where you want to meet.**

Asset texts the address and tells Sam Wilson to delete it, as soon as he’s memorized it. He doesn’t want anyone else to come with Sam Wilson. He’s not ready to face Steve and Natalia. He wants Sam Wilson all to himself (or as himself as Asset can get, with Handler and Traitor hanging around).

Though really, Asset thinks as he swiftly walks to the rendezvous point, this isn’t a place for _that_. Traitor is appalled at the idea of touching Sam Wilson like that in anything but a bed, but Asset has no such compunctions. He just wants to touch Sam Wilson, however and wherever he can. Even in this old restaurant that hasn’t been open since the nineteen nineties.

It’s dusty and dark when he gets there, which is what he wants. But what if the dust makes it hard to breathe for Sam Wilson? Maybe he’s like Steve and has asthma. Nothing about it has come up in Asset’s research but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Traitor tells him forcefully -- more than Asset is used to from him -- that Sam cannot come here without everything clean. If not clean, then less dusty. _Mom would kill me if I let my soulmate breathe in pure dust._

Grumbling, Asset goes and looks through the closet to see if anything was left from the last owners. Sure enough, there’s a mop and a few washcloths. He grabs one and moves to the counter first. Traitor takes over and wipes every inch down, coughing at the dust floating around even though it doesn’t bother Asset. “Ugh,” Traitor says to the counter. “I hate cleaning.”

“Let me do it, then,” Asset snaps, taking back control with ease. That’s the only reason he allows Traitor such free reign over their body -- he knows he can take back control and Traitor won’t put up a fight. If Handler got control, Asset would never get his body back. He wipes down the tables, of which there are only a few left, quickly and efficiently. He doesn’t cough or react at all but to gripe to Traitor about having to do everything.

Traitor rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. _Yeah, sure, pal. At least I can text Sam without being all weird._

Asset bites off a curse word. _Traitor doesn’t know what he’s talking about,_ he reminds himself. _Leave Traitor be._

 _That’s right, leave me be,_ Traitor taunts. _I’m making sure Sam likes us._

Asset throws the washcloth back at the closet. Traitor moves their feet and forces Asset to pick up the damn thing.

By the time Asset gets around to texting Sam Wilson when to come, the whole place is cleaned up. Asset has found he likes cleaning, which Traitor finds scandalous. _Cleaning is for people who got nothing better to do and are really that bored._

 _Well, I like it,_ he says, more concerned with typing the right message. The phone he has, some small, cheap “burner phone”, has tiny buttons. His fingers are too big to text easily.

_Of course you do, dweeb._

_Says you, science nerd._

_You are science._

_Damn right I am._ He hits send telling Sam Wilson to come now and then looks around. He’s done good; warmth rushes through him at the thought. He cleaned and made sure Sam Wilson will be able to breathe. He’s finally done something good.

He sits at the nearest table and waits. Traitor wants to kick their feet but Asset doesn’t let him. He doesn’t want to look stupid in front of Sam Wilson when he gets here.

So he sits still in his seat, listens to Traitor tell a story about a boy named Jacob who hadn’t invited Traitor to his bar mitzvah. It’s an interesting story, one with Steve in it. Steve when he was small. Traitor likes Steve being small. Easier to take care of, he says. Asset doesn’t really know either way. He’s never had to take care of anyone, except keeping targets alive long enough for interrogation. Traitor says that doesn’t count.

He knows exactly when Sam Wilson gets near, because Sam Wilson texts, **this place? Really man?**

 **It’s safe** , he replies. Plus there are no other people to stare at Asset, no superhero friends waiting to put him down. There’s never been Hydra in this place unless they came here to eat pizza; it’s safe.

He stands and moves to the door. It’s easy to slip out and sit on the stoop, head hanging low. Everyone that walks by avoids his eyes. They all do until a pair of boots comes into Asset’s view. He looks up, squinting as the sun, just beginning it’s descent, shines in his eyes. It’s Sam Wilson, alright, standing tall and proud and looking at Asset apprehensively. Traitor’s mouth drops open. Asset can’t help but notice that Sam Wilson is wearing clothes that fit the season, a t-shirt and shorts. Asset can plainly see his arms and legs. Sam Wilson has muscles. Big ones. Ones Asset wants to touch.

“You wanna do this outside?” Voice analysis: confused. Assessment: Sam Wilson’s voice is attractive, too.

“Uh.” Asset says. What are words. He does manage to scramble to his feet but that’s all he’s able to accomplish.

Amusement gradually quirks up the sides of Sam Wilson’s lips. He seems to know exactly what Asset is thinking. “Is it even safe to go in there?”

Traitor says, “Yes. I cleaned.” Even though that asshole didn’t clean anything.

“Oh?” Sam Wilson crosses his arms, but it doesn’t seem like he’s angry. Asset hopes he’s not angry. Has he done something to make Sam Wilson angry? Traitor says, _no._ “You cleaned, did you?”

“Wanted everything to look good for you,” Traitor says flirtatiously. Where did that come from? How is Traitor so much better at this than him?

Sam Wilson’s face blanks out. Asset thinks, _oh you’ve done it now._ What if Traitor scares off Sam Wilson? Not everyone likes being talked to that way. Asset doesn’t. Maybe Sam Wilson doesn’t either.

“Bucky,” is all he says. Asset likes that Sam Wilson calls him Bucky but would also like some more words. What’d he do?

“What?”

Sam Wilson rubs at his forehead. “Look, we’re soulmates, yeah, but I’m married.”

“So?” Asset doesn’t care. What does flirting have to do with being married? For his part, Traitor can’t make up his mind -- half of him says Sam Wilson being married means he’s off limits, while the other half says that Sam Wilson’s Name is on his body and therefore he is Bucky’s, not Natalia’s. Or Steve’s. He’s Bucky’s.

“So you’re not supposed to flirt with me.”

Asset looks at Sam Wilson for a long moment. Time to do something he’s uncertain will end well. “Do you want me to flirt with you?”

Sam Wilson’s eyes widen. “Uh -- I mean -- yeah, I don’t -- you’re -- “

“Yes or no, Sam Wilson.” Traitor makes a horrified noise at the sound of Sam Wilson’s last name. _You’re really gonna full name him like that? You’re not his ma._ Asset doesn’t respond, just watches Sam Wilson.

Sam Wilson’s eyebrows come down immediately, creases between them appearing. He mouths his own name, but doesn’t end up asking. He visibly steels his resolve and says, “Yes.”

* * *

Sam and Natasha have talked at length what constitutes cheating and what doesn’t. When Steve entered the picture, all three of them talked about it. Flirting had been a case by case thing, where it sometimes is cheating and sometimes isn’t. For instance, Natasha has to flirt on missions a lot, which is her job and therefore not cheating.

Sam’s considering this to be one of the times it isn’t considered cheating. This is his soulmate, after all, and anyway, isn’t Steve always going on about letting Bucky do what he wants? If Bucky wants to flirt with Sam, who is he to say no?

Bucky nods to himself, looking down. He brings his eyes back up seconds later, forcing eye contact. Using his flesh hand, he pushes the door open and steps through, making space for Sam to step past him. Sam’s shoulder brushes Bucky’s chest as he walks in -- electric zings shoot through Sam, something in his brain clicking and saying  _ yes  _ a hundred times over.

He forces himself to keep walking. He has no idea what he’s doing here, really, except that Bucky wanted him to come. He suspects they’re going to talk, which means he can acknowledge _that_ later.

For now, Sam looks around and takes in the place Bucky said is safe. He hadn’t looked up the address for fear that Jarvis would tell Tony who would tell Steve. So Sam has no idea what this place is...but it looks like a restaurant. A counter with rusty metal stools he’d expect to see in a Steak ‘n Shake, a couple booths -- one without a table -- along the wall, a few tables near the other wall. Random stuff lies on the floor -- cardboard, the pole of a stool, a couple spray paint cans. The windows are boarded up, and the door locks from the inside. No wonder Bucky thinks it’s safe.

Bucky still stands at the door, though it’s closed now. His eyes follow Sam as Sam steps around the junk to get to one of the booths. The seats are ripped and old but Sam has sat on much worse. He sits sideways, his legs hanging out the side. “So, any reason you wanted me to come here?”

Sam watches as Bucky blinks at him, gaze lowering not in an up-down but to the floor. He shakes his head minutely, changing before Sam’s eyes. When he looks up, he looks so much like the Bucky Barnes Sam spent his life trying not to love that it takes his breath away. “Wanted to see you again. When I’m not, you know.” He steps closer to the table, getting close enough Sam has to look up to see his face. “Should I -- “

“Yeah, go ahead, sit.” Sam swings his legs under the table -- surprisingly not dirty, but then, Bucky had said he’d cleaned, hadn’t he? -- and grins. Bucky doesn’t smile back but Sam didn’t expect him to. He does sit down, though, which makes Sam’s grin widen. “So, Bucky, uh -- what do you want to talk about? I mean, I assume we’re here to talk.”

“Yes. We are. I want...I want to talk about….” He casts his eyes around, looking for something. He seems to find something, because he turns back to Sam a little more confident than before. “Cleaning.”

Sam tilts his head, a tad confused. Bucky wants to talk about cleaning? Not exactly what he was expecting but he can roll with it. “Alright. You said you cleaned this place up?”

“It was dusty.” He shrugs.

Sam nods, unsure what he could add to that to keep the conversation going. When he can’t think of anything, it’s him casting around for something to talk about. Then -- “D’you like cleaning?”

Bucky gives him that stare again, like he’s seeing right through Sam. It lasts only a second before Bucky’s relaxing into the seat. “I do.” He pauses, steels his resolve. Sam straightens out of habit. “And...and I like when you call me Bucky.” Defiant eyes meet Sam’s.

Sam bites his lip, doesn’t offer his hand, and says, “I’m Sam. You don’t have to call me my first and last name, by the way. Just Sam is fine.”

“Sam,” Bucky tries out, and Sam has to pointedly tell that shiver up his spine to fuck off. “Sam, um.”

After a minute of Bucky not saying anything, Sam prods, “Yeah?”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head again. “When we first met, that wasn’t...I was….”

“It wasn’t you, I know,” Sam soothes. His stomach is full of butterflies again, all of them flapping their wings happily at how _near_ Bucky is, at the sound of his voice.

Bucky makes a frustrated noise that he cuts off immediately. “It _was_ me. A part of me, at least. But either way, it was _me_ there and I. I’m sorry. For what I did to you. For your wings. I shouldn’t -- I’m not supposed to hurt you. You’re my soulmate,” he says helplessly, begging Sam to understand.

Sam doesn’t want to be the one to tell Bucky Barnes that sometimes people you love hurt you. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell Bucky Barnes that you can’t just trust your soulmate right off the bat anymore. “Bucky -- “

Bucky cuts him off, looking down at the table and trembling. “Sam, this is important. Please. I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to keep you safe and happy but I hurt you. I almost _killed_ you.”

Well, shit. There’s a lot to unpack there. “Bucky, listen, it’s not your job to take care of me. I can take care of myself. I’m not happy that you did that, no, but I can forgive you for it. I _do_ forgive you.” Sam’s spent these last few months thinking about it obsessively and though it was awful and traumatizing, he _has_ forgiven Bucky for it. He’s learned so much about what Bucky went through and it’d be hard for Sam to _not_ forgive the guy. Any leftover bitterness goes away in the face of Bucky apologizing.

“But - “

“No but’s, Bucky. You and I are soulmates, yeah. But soulmates doesn’t automatically mean we’re responsible for each other or one is completely dependent on the other.” He looks Bucky in the eyes as best he can, but Bucky doesn’t want to look up. Sam adds, “Thank you for apologizing.”

Bucky swallows and nods. He’s silent, for a while. Sam takes a good look at him -- he’s pale, thin, washed. His hair is greasy but his skin isn’t dirty. His clothes are made for warmth, thick and dark colored. His fingers move endlessly, curling and stretching out. He’s a ball of nervous energy; the bags under his eyes tell a different story. Sam’s gaze turns to Bucky’s face -- his bitten-red lips, his crooked nose, his wide eyes that see everything. His skin is dry, and lines criss-cross over patches on his cheeks and forehead like he scratched them.

“Are you gonna be staying in New York long?”

Bucky’s eyes cut to Sam’s, assessing. There’s no suspicion, no distrust. That, coupled with Bucky’s actions -- reaching out to Sam, being vulnerable in front of him, apologizing and really meaning it -- brings Sam to one conclusion. Somehow, Bucky trusts Sam when he doesn’t trust anyone else. He suspects it’s because they’re soulmates. Steve’s said before that Mama Barnes hailed soulmates; he’s said Bucky has wanted his soulmate since he got Sam’s Name. So it makes sense, then, that Bucky trusts him. Sort of. Sam can’t pretend to know what goes through Bucky’s mind.

“I don’t know.” He taps his fingers on the table, one at a time. “I don’t have much of anything left. I have you. And Steve and Natalia, I suppose. I don’t know what’s next.”

“That’s alright. I was thinking, uh, maybe you could stay…? Maybe at the Tower or in an apartment?”

“An apartment?” He sounds confused.

“Yeah, like your own space, right? Permanent shelter? Doesn’t have to be with anyone if you don’t want it, but if you don’t want to be alone...you could come to the Tower.” Sam, suddenly, really wants Bucky to come to the Tower. He’s never really thought about it, but having Bucky that close? Even a floor away would be amazing. He’d be close enough for Sam to see and touch whenever he wants. He’d be _right there_. God, that sounds like a dream come true. Bucky, within arm’s reach.

Bucky’s eyes lighten, just enough to be noticeable. Similar thoughts to Sam’s almost visibly flit through his mind. “Where would I live in the Tower? With you?”

He chuckles, quirking his eyebrows. “Well, you could if you wanted. But I live with Steve and Natasha on Nat and I’s floor. There’s an extra room with your name on it, if you want it.”

Bucky’s eyes widen with every word, mouth dropping open just a little. “You’d let me do that?”

Does he really think this soulmates thing goes one way? He can take care of Sam but Sam can’t take care of Bucky? Sam has to fight an eyeroll. Steve’s the same way.

“Yeah, Bucky. Of course. Like you said earlier, we’re soulmates. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Bucky swallows, lips curling up at the corners. Sam abruptly realizes just how good looking Bucky is, even with his greasy hair. He’s known, for a long time, but it’s different in person. “You’d be doing more than anyone has in a long time.”

Sam smiles back at him, gentle if a bit bittersweet. “That’s what you deserve.

* * *

Asset -- no, Bucky -- Bucky follows Sam Wilson -- just Sam -- home to the Tower that day.

There’s a man in the ceiling who Sam says is JARVIS, all capitals. He’s not really a man in the ceiling, he’s a computer. Ass-- Bucky asks if he’s like Zola, if JARVIS was once alive. JARVIS says no. Bucky isn’t sure he believes JARVIS but Sam pats the wall and speaks very fondly to the ceiling. Asset -- _Bucky_ \-- decides he’ll be civil for now.

JARVIS makes him do a few checks. His eye gets scanned -- he holds very still and waits for pain but none comes -- and then his fingerprints. Red light passes over him in a wave, declaring him armed. JARVIS says he can’t go upstairs if he’s armed.

“Override, code A7-SFW,” Sam replies.

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS mumbles, allowing Sam and Bucky onto the elevator. Bucky presses his back against the wall and doesn’t look away from the doors.

Sam reaches out, pulling his hand back after a few seconds. Asse-- Bucky watches him very carefully. He doesn’t want Sam to touch him anywhere, but he also wants Sam to touch him everywhere. “It’s okay, no one else is gonna come on this elevator.”

“That’s not the issue,” he bites out, saying more than he probably should. It’s hard to think, though, hard to find the words to say. Traitor’s too busy thinking about the bedroom Sam’s just giving him to help.

“What’s up, then?”

Might as well tell him, Bucky thinks. “Too closed in. It’s too much like cryo.” He shivers, curling his fingers in the pockets of his jacket. Already, he’s cold. He’s always cold but even just mentioning cryo makes it worse.

Sam just looks at Bucky; it makes him uncomfortable. He wants people to stop looking at him. Eventually, long after Bucky’s looked away, shifted, looked to his feet to escape that gaze, Sam says, “Is that why you stole our clothes? ‘Cause you were cold?”

“I _am_ cold,” he snaps, harsher than he means to. He calms himself with a deep breath, reminding himself that he has his journals in his backpack and will be able to get to them soon. He just has to face Steve and Natalia and somehow keep himself from bolting. If he can get through that, then he can curl up in whatever bed Sam says is his and read his journals.

Again, Sam doesn’t seem to know what to say. They’re quiet for the rest of the ride to Sam’s floor, which the number on the wall says is 74. Floor seventy-four. A-- Bucky is going to be sick.

Sam doesn’t mind it, clearly, as he steps out easily and doesn’t look even a little pale. Bucky steps after him, irrationally fearful the floor will fall out from under him.

He doesn’t look up for a few steps, not until he’s sure. When he does, he finds that Sam’s watching him and that there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around them. The sudden relief he feels makes his knees weak. He moves quickly to the bar and sinks onto one of the stools. Sam follows.

“I never gave you your stuff back,” Bucky says, just remembering that that was why he’d come to New York in the first place.

Sam shrugs magnanimously. “I just want the pictures back. You can keep the rest of it if you really want it.”

He does want it. Traitor blurts, “But I want the pictures.” Ass-- Bucky winces. He knows better than to take advantage of kindness, and it _is_ kindness. Bucky stole Sam’s belongings and now he’s saying Bucky can keep it. Bucky can’t let himself or Traitor make Sam mad; he can’t do anything that would make Sam change his mind about keeping Bucky around. “I mean -- I’m sorry, I’ll give you the pictures. I kept them in the frames so they wouldn’t get ruined. Nothing happened to them.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We can make copies and you can have those. But I need the originals.”

“Okay.” They’re in his bag. But he doesn’t want Sam to see inside, so, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Sam springs up, beckoning Bucky to follow him down the hall. There are a few doors, one of which is open and reveals a bedroom. Two cats, one white and one black, lay curled up in the middle, tails flicking. The bed is bigger than any Bucky has ever seen, bigger than the one in the house in DC. It looks soft, too. Is his bed going to be that big? That soft?

The next door is closed, and they don’t stop. The third door, across the hall from the bedroom, Sam opens. They stop just inside the doorway. “Here’s your room. The bathroom is through that door right there,” he says, pointing. “I’ll be right back, alright?”

Bucky nods and waits for Sam to go to the bedroom down the hall before he closes the door and locks it.

The bed isn’t as big, but is still bigger than he expected. He can spread out on this bed and still have space. Sitting on it reveals that it _is_ soft; suddenly, Bucky wants to sleep. He hasn’t slept since he got to New York.

But, he reminds himself, he can’t. He has to get the frames out of his bag.

The trash bag with his clothes is full, now, mostly with dark clothing and his kevlar. There are a few brighter things, from when Traitor couldn’t help himself and swiped them. The bright green socks Asset stole are on his feet. That Bucky stole, not Asset.

He pulls that bag out of his backpack and shoves it under the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere better to put it where no one will be able to find it, but it works where it is, for now. He leaves his journals and the other things he’s found and taken in his bag, but pulls out the framed pictures and the shot glasses. Every time he took out a Hydra base, he’d buy a shot glass from the nearest town. It was Traitor’s idea.

He shoves his backpack under the bed with the trash bag, and leaves the room, creeping down the hall to Sam’s bedroom. The door is closed, now. “Sam?” he calls.

The door opens in seconds, and there’s Sam, a flush on his cheeks. “Hey! Hi, Bucky. What’s up? Need something?”

“...are you okay?”

Sam blinks and scoffs. “Yeah, I’m fine. What d’you got there?” He changes the subject.

Bucky hands him the pictures, first, and holds the glass souvenirs close to his chest. He feels, out of nowhere, that he shouldn’t have gotten these little trinkets for Sam. Why would he want shot glasses? Why would he want reminders of all the times he chased Bucky and Bucky ran away? Why would he want reminders of all the times Bucky killed people and burned down buildings and generally wreaked havoc?

And anyway, they need to be washed after all the times he used them.

Either way, he’s...embarrassed. Maybe Natalia will like these. As far as he remembers, Natalia likes to drink and will appreciate the shot glasses. But how can he get them to her without Steve or Sam seeing?

“Thanks, man. What else you got?”

“It’s just...some shot glasses. I got them for you.” Shyly, he hands them over to Sam. Sam takes them with a smile, turning them around to see the places.

“Havana, Frankfurt, Beijing…. Did you get these in all the places you took out Hydra bases?” A curious look is on Sam’s face, one Bucky can’t read. He shifts on his feet nervously, nodding. Sam chuckles and shakes his head, “Wow. Well, thank you.”

“You gotta wash ‘em,” Bucky blurts.

“Why?”

“I used them.”

“Oh. Alright.” Sam moves to the kitchen and Bucky follows, a few steps behind. “Steve and Nat are gonna be back soon. I didn’t tell them you’re here -- didn’t know if you’d want me to -- so uh, yeah.”

Bucky settles on the stool he sat on earlier, watching as Sam washes out the glasses and opens a door under the counter that has two racks. Sam puts them on the lower rack, the one closer to the floor. Frowning, he asks, “What is that?”

Sam looks over his shoulder. He pushes the racks in without looking and closes and the door. “What’s what?”

Bucky points. “That.”

Sam’s lips purse. His eyebrows draw together and the look in his eyes is something akin to anger. His voice, though, is calm and not condescending. “That’s a dishwasher. It cleans the dishes so you don’t have to, basically.”

“Oh. Real convenient,” Traitor drawls. “Didn’t have anything like that when I was growing up.”

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch together even more. “You remember that?”

“Yes.” Why wouldn’t he? He remembers a lot. When he was a baby and when he was in cryo are beyond him but that’s all. Everything else is jumbled but it’s there. Traitor tells him what the stories behind memories are when he can remember them. Most of the time, he has details but not all of them.

“But -- nevermind. What’re you gonna do about Steve and Nat?”

Bucky pauses. It’s nice that Sam’s letting him decide. It’s _really_ nice. Bucky should do something nice back, probably. _Traitor, help._

Traitor sighs, _I don’t know. Maybe do a few chores for him? But that made Steve mad…. Don’t do chores. Would it make Sam happy if you said hi to Steve and Natalia?_

_But… I don’t want to say hi to them._

_It’s just Steve and Natalia! You know them._ Traitor softens his voice, tells Bucky, _they aren’t gonna hurt you._

Bucky knows that. But they’ll _know_ him and he doesn’t want to be known. He doesn’t want to be Steve’s Bucky or Natalia’s Yasha. They’ll expect him to be those people and it’s already a struggle to be this Bucky for Sam, who didn’t know Bucky before.

 _You’re nothing like me,_ Traitor says. _Sam can tell, I think. He knows when it’s you and when it’s me that’s talking. They’re smart, they can figure it out._

He sighs, body loosening just a little. Dammit, Traitor. That’s a good point. “I’ll say hi and go to the room.”

“Your room,” Sam corrects, leaning up against the counter. Bucky wants to pounce on him and bite kisses into his throat. He wants to clutch Sam tight and fade into him. He also kind of wants to curl into a ball and cry, or maybe go kill some more Hydra agents.

His head hurts. He doesn’t dare press a hand to his head, doesn’t dare show any weakness. Not after what he pulled earlier in the pizza place. “My room,” he repeats quietly.

Sam nods encouragingly. His smile is soft and gentle and it makes Bucky want to cry. “Yeah, your room. You’re my soulmate, Bucky, not my guest or something. Like you said, I’m supposed to keep you safe and happy. Giving you your own room is how I can make sure of that.”

Bucky’s throat tightens. Goddammit, Sam. “Guess that’s not a one way street, huh?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope. Never gonna be, either.”

A smile -- a genuine, honest-to-god smile -- blooms on Bucky’s face. He’s not a lucky man by any stretch but boy, did he luck out on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this is tagged barbershop quartet (BSQ) but it doesn't actually show up. I'm sorry about that! It felt appropriate to end it where I did. However, the intent of BSQ is there and I am totally willing to hash it out further.
> 
> Funny story -- I had an entire story planned out for this bang. I researched extensively. I have a whole doc labelled "SWBB Research". Eventually, I got stuck and had no betas at that point so I thought "I've had this idea about Sam and Nat being Steve and Bucky's soulmates and bonding over the lost 'mates for, like, two years. I should try to write it again." So I did! I liked writing this a lot more and was having more fun making stuff up. So I completely changed all my plans and wrote this in about a month and a half. 
> 
> Ultimately, I'm glad I changed my mind. 
> 
> Again, I want to thank my betas for helping me with this -- some of the things I missed honestly would've made this unreadable without them catching those bits! My artist deserves a round of applause for their amazing work! Thank you, Austin <3
> 
> And of course, thank _you_ for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [sammywilsonposts](http://sammywilsonposts.tumblr.com). Come talk to me! I am always willing to cry about most characters in the MCU.
> 
> I'm gonna shamelessly plug [my meta folder for this bang right here](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0B30RX4efyaE4WGZvQzB5bUoxWDg). Please go check it out! I understand there's a lot to read but I promise it will help you write Sam. If you'd like a shortened version, you can find that [here](https://sammywilsonposts.tumblr.com/post/164461342725/sam-wilson-meta-a-timeline)!
> 
> Please check out [this survey](https://goo.gl/forms/rY12TPjb86ACAqs82) about this fic and future installments in this verse! It's completely anonymous and won't take more than five minutes. Thank you!


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